Chapter Nine

 

Fronto performed a quick headcount and, noting eighteen occupants, nodded to Masgava to close the tent flap and tie it shut. The men of his singulares unit sat around on the various small stools and seats or on the thick rug on the floor, interest showing in their faces.

‘Masgava and Palmatus you all know. Some of you might have believed when you were plucked from the drab everyday of your legion or cavalry life that you’d just been handed an easy ride. Now that you’re getting used to your two officers, you’ll probably have abandoned that notion. I am not a sit-back-and-watch staff officer. I like to put palm to hilt and bloody myself up to the elbows in battle, so your job as a bodyguard unit is likely to be somewhat perilous.’

He grinned. ‘Think on that for a few heartbeats, because this is your last chance to back out and request a transfer. I’ll grant it, because I only want committed soldiers here.’

He paused for only a moment before gesturing to a pale, willowy figure, seemingly odd-fitting in a military tunic and boots. ‘Damionis there is a capsarius that comes highly recommended by my former training centurion, Atenos, and therefore has my utmost confidence and support. If he tells you to do something, you do it. Capsarii are paid well for a reason.’

‘At the back over there is Biorix. He will remember me, won’t you?’

The big blond engineer from the Thirteenth, still noticeably Gallic in appearance despite having Romanised as much as one could expect, nodded his recognition.

‘Biorix was instrumental in the success of the battle of the Aisne river up in Belgae lands a few years back. He’s an intuitive engineer and a man of Gaul, to boot.’

He leaned back. ‘So that’s four of you I know of old, and who know me. The rest of you will probably know of me by reputation anyway if you’ve been with us for more than a year, and, of course, some of you were with me when we took Asadunon. I don’t have an excellent memory for names, and it’ll be weeks before I stop calling you ‘you there’ or ‘big nose’ or ‘lop-eye’ or some such. Don’t take offence. I’ve been called worse, and it just means I’m trying to remember who you are. See, there’s only nineteen of us altogether, and we lost too many at Asadunon. I want each of these faces still looking up at me from a briefing by the time the army settles into winter quarters later in the year. Alright?’

There was a murmur of agreement, and Fronto poured himself a watered wine, three parts to one in favour of inebriety. ‘Very well. The rest of you introduce yourselves. You all need to know who you are and what you do. We’ll start with the native levy.’

One of the recent recruits - a dark-haired and bearded man with arm rings, a neck-torc and various pendants and sigils attached to his clothing - cleared his throat. ‘I am Brannogenos of the Remi, warrior and noble of Acoduro on the Aisne river.’

‘And I am Galatos of the Remi, noble of Avacon on the Aisne,’ added an old grey-beard seated next to him. His age might be against him, pondered Fronto, but noting the number of battle-won arm rings - including a couple of unusually rich and decorative mixed copper-and-gold ones - and the clearly well-used sword at his side, Galatos was no doddering ancient.

‘Magurix,’ announced another from nearby. Young and handsome and with muscles that would produce envy in a trained wrestler, Magurix brushed a blond braid aside and smiled a white smile. ‘Remi, of no settled home.’

Curious, noted Fronto, filing the nugget away for future investigation.

‘Samognatos of the Condrusi,’ chimed a strange looking fellow near the door, ‘and I did not request this. I am not sure why I am here?’ The man had been recommended through Galronus and, while an irregular scout with no paid position in the army, he was perhaps the most important man here. It worried Fronto that the man seemed to wear a permanent half-crazed smile, and his appearance was no easier. With flaming red locks and moustaches, Samognatos had left half his hair long, ragged and knotted, while the other half of his head had been shaved clean. Badly, too, judging by the criss-crossed network of fine white scars. Still, he had been recommended as the best.

‘I’ll come to you last, my friend,’ Fronto smiled. ‘We have two archers from Crete, drawn from Decius’ auxiliary force, and a Balearic slinger who I’ve met. Care to introduce yourselves?’

‘Myron,’ grunted a dark-haired and olive-skinned man with no further explanation. His skin tone marked him as a Greek as much as the accent that tinged his Latin.

‘And I am Arcadios,’ smiled a man with similar looks, though taller and broader and sitting hugging his knees on the floor. ‘Myron and I are natives of Hersonissos. My aim is unerringly true, and yet Myron over here could knock my arrow out of the sky with his own. He can bring down a hawk by piercing its wing.’

‘Excellent!’ grinned Fronto. ‘Good eating on a hawk.’

Myron barely acknowledged the conversation, a faint nod his only contribution.

‘And you’d be the slinger,’ Fronto gestured to a man in a pale grey tunic. ‘I remember you from Asadunon. One swing of the leather and you brought the man down. Economy of action. I like that.’

The slinger bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Luxinio,’ he confirmed in a thick Hispanic accent through a bushy, curly black beard.

The remaining eight men sat together, in an almost laughably disciplined double row. If Fronto hadn’t already known they’d been drawn from the legions it would have been obvious from the neatness of their positioning and the uniformity of their dress.

‘You all from the Thirteenth? I can see a lot of Gallic blood there.’

‘I’m from the Ninth, sir.’

‘I recognise you. Saw you with a rope and grapple at Asadunon. Engineer, yes?’

‘Artillerist mainly. Iuvenalis, sir, of Tibur.’

Fronto nodded. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Quietus, also of the Ninth,’ announced a veritable giant of a legionary with a shock of unruly straw-blond hair. His wrist was probably about the size of Fronto’s thigh.

‘I remember you from Asadunon too, I think. Good man.’

‘We’s both from the Tenth, sir’ piped up a short man, gesturing to his comrade with a back-turned thumb. ‘Served under Centurion Atenos. He were a bit reluctant to let us go, truth be tole, sir, but your two officers is quite persuasive, we think.’

The man next to him grinned and Fronto saw Palmatus frown at them, but Masgava simply chuckled at the apparent compliment.

‘Valgus and Celer, sir’ the second man explained, fidgeting with the silver Medusa ring on his finger. ‘He’s Celer. Thinks he’s quick, sir.’

A light laughter rippled across the room, including from Celer, Fronto noted. Good. At least he had a sense of humour.

‘So the rest of you are from the Thirteenth?’

‘Sir,’ nodded the four remaining men.

‘Names?’

The legionaries called out their names in roll-call fashion and Fronto nodded. ‘Numisius, Drusus, Aurelius and Pontius - Good Latin names, but I’m guessing from your looks that you’re all men of Cisalpine Gaul up around Cremona and Aquileia? N - D - A - P. Never Dice Against Priscus.’ He smiled.

‘Sir?’

‘Mnemonic. Helps me remember names. My wife taught me the way, Aurelius.’ He took the last swig of wine from his cup and placed it on the small table, leaning forward in his chair.

‘Right. We all know one another a little now and I’m sure we’re going to get to know each other quite well in time. Your officers, Palmatus and Masgava, are a little unconventional, as you’ve probably noticed. They’re not centurions, so don’t refer to them as such. In fact, I suppose they ought to rank as prefects, given their position, but I think we’ll just stick with the word ‘officer’ for now. They’ve put you together into a unit because with such a variety of talents and backgrounds, you should be able to handle just about anything thrown at you. But at the same time, you have all agreed - yes Samognatos I know you didn’t, so put your arm down - to be part of this singulares unit for a Roman commander. That means I want everyone to treat the unit as though it were a legion. Discipline and order. So…’ he took a deep breath. ‘Bearing in mind what I’ve said about peril and unconventionality, now is the last time I will accept any request for a transfer. Speak now.’

The Condrusi ‘volunteer’ cleared his throat but Fronto waved him down. Other than that there was no sound, just an expectant silence.

‘Good. In that case, pass around the cups from that table. You’ll find two jugs of good wine in that cupboard and there are several jars of water. Drink a toast to each other and to Fortuna and Nemesis who I’m sure will guide our path well, since they’ve looked after me for years.’

He waited while the drinks were distributed, and then sat back again.

‘Very well. I have been in discussions with Caesar and with your two officers and we have taken on the task of hunting a treacherous Belgic rebel: Ambiorix. I am going to leap to the assumption that you are all familiar with the name?’

Nods and positive murmurs accompanied the expressions of surprise and concern.

‘Ambiorix has gone to ground somewhere in Belgae lands. Those of you of native blood will no doubt have been a little disheartened by the general’s ‘loot, enslave and burn’ policy regarding the Belgae at the moment. You probably realise that this is all in an effort to bring to justice that Eburone king who massacred a legion a few months back? Suffice it to say that we believe that two contubernia of good men could succeed where nine legions might fail. If we bring back Ambiorix, we can save the Belgae from very probable obliteration.’

He grinned.

‘And that, friend Samognatos, is where you come in. Searix and Galronus have both recommended you as a smart and subtle man who knows the entire region well. I hope that is true. While I have no intention of granting you a transfer, I hope you realise, given the location and predicament of your tribe, that what we are about to embark upon could be the balm to ease your people?’

The scout pursed his lips and nodded.

‘Good. First thing’s first. Your officers have arranged requisition of everything we might need, and it is all neatly stockpiled in one of the stores. One of the stables holds a native horse for each of you, fitted with tack and saddle. They are all larger beasts than we’re used to in Rome - much like my Bucephalus - but they’re all battle trained. There are also six pack horses for us and four spare mounts in case of trouble. Once we’re done here I want everyone to return to their tents and pack their kit - we are leaving before the sun rises. While our mission is hardly a secret, news of our absence will soon get round and I would prefer to have a head start on any Gallic spies that might be hiding in the camp. I’ve cleared our departure with command and with the duty centurion of the east gate. When the call for the eighth watch goes out, I want every man to make his way to the storage sheds near the east gate. You’ll know which one, as we’ll already be there and the lamps will be lit.’

Again, murmurs and nods around the tent.

‘We move out and travel east as speedily as we dare, saving the horses rather than riding them into the dirt. This is where you come in, Samognatos.’

The scout nodded his strange, half-shaved head and his smile remained fixed.

‘We need some sort of lead on Ambiorix’s probable location. I doubt he’ll be with the Treveri, as they’re embroiled with Labienus to the south. He’s been in contact with the Nervii, though possibly only through intermediaries. He’s got ties with the Menapii, and what remains of the Eburones tribe, though I gather his fellow king, Cativolcus, is no friend to our quarry. Whatever the case, what we’ve known so far will be very much old news by the time we are in his lands, so we need the latest intelligence. Our best, most central, and most loyal friends there are the Condrusi, and so Samognatos here will lead us to his people so we can make enquiries and hopefully know better where to start.’

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.

‘Impressive,’ he muttered, scanning the town.

‘Tonight we rest in the town and speak to the council of elders. They will have had men in the forests, watching, and will know we are here. In the morning we climb to the nemeton and commune with the druids.’

Fronto turned, prepared to argue the necessity for speed, but there was a quiet reverence in the scout’s face, even straightening his permanently-smiling mouth a little, and the Roman found his words dried in his throat. If it were true that there were druids here who would actually help, it would be a good idea not to irritate them. He still felt uncomfortable with the very idea, though. He’d never yet met a druid who hadn’t either spat bile at him or tried to kill him.

Behind him, the others rounded the bend and there were a few whistles of appreciation at the sight of the sacred settlement.

‘We’re bound for an inn first.’ Fronto straightened in his saddle. ‘Once there, I will take six men with me, as well as Samognatos here, to talk to the leaders. The rest of you get the horses fed and stabled, store the kit and secure the rooms. Send out a few men to replenish the supplies we’ve used so far and then wait for our return. In the morning we’re to visit druids and I want to be sure we’re ready for anything.’

As he turned and began to walk Bucephalus down towards the river, with the column moving along behind, he leaned across to Samognatos.

‘How do we get across?’

‘Ferrymen,’ the scout replied. ‘Pay them well.’

Fronto looked at the fast, wide and deep river and nodded. ‘Believe me, I will.’

By the time the party had assembled on the near bank, horses snorting gratefully and taking the opportunity to rip at the lush green grass of the valley, the ferrymen were already on their way. Clearly they were used to dealing with vehicles and beasts of burden. The ferries were wide and flat with high sides, large enough to accommodate a cart with oxen, and there were two such vessels ploughing through the rippling water towards them. As the first approached with surprising accuracy, making for the bank directly before Fronto, the commander noted the iron rings driven into the timbers of the boat and the ropes stacked in a corner for tethering skittish animals during the crossing. As he watched the men work, he realised they were using a line submerged beneath the water, running through a ring on the vessel, to pull themselves across with such accuracy. As one of the ferry’s two occupants leapt ashore and began to haul the boat up onto the gravel, the other entered into a brief exchange with Samognatos.

‘He says three men at a time. No more. One silver coin a trip. A sestertius would do.’

Fronto nodded his agreement as he made a quick mental calculation and fished seven coins from his purse. ‘Sensible. Ask him if he’s transported any other groups of riders this big in the last couple of days.’

The scout relayed the question as the ferryman gestured for the first three to board. Fronto dismounted and motioned to Palmatus to join him, leading Bucephalus onto the wooden deck.

‘He says no group of this size,’ Samognatos relayed, dropping from his own steed. ‘A party of foreigners came through here yesterday, but there were only five, and they were not stopping in the town.’

‘Were they the ones we saw?’

‘They were southerners, he says.’

‘So, yes, then.’

Palmatus led his horse aboard, rubbing his sore posterior in relief, and Samognatos joined them as the second ferry approached and Masgava selected three men to cross first.

‘I don’t like the fact that Arverni have passed through here. I don’t trust the druids at the best of times, and that Arverni warrior had close links with them, he said. Everyone stays in the inn except for collecting supplies, and I want them out in pairs for that, too, and armed.’ Palmatus nodded his understanding. ‘Do you think they know we’re out and about?’

Fronto shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I think they’re on their own business, but I’d sooner they didn’t learn about us, just in case.’

The three men fell silent and leaned on the side of the ferry, watching the slate-dark water slide past as the ferrymen hauled on the rope, dragging them back across to the town. The imposing bulk of the tall cliff became ever more impressive as the ferry drifted towards it and the shape, which already loomed, took on an extra level of ominousness with the knowledge that druids who may or may not be in league with the Arverni sat atop it waiting for them.

Fronto was busy trying to make sense of it all when the ferry crunched to a halt on the town-ward side, and he had to grip the timber strake to keep his footing. Moments later, the three men had led their horses from the vessel and the ferrymen had slid their watery steed out into the river once more, making for the waiting horsemen. The next three were already halfway across.

‘There will be no inn that can provide proper accommodation for nineteen men,’ noted Samognatos. ‘Either we split between two or three inns, or many men will have to sleep in a bunk house together.’

Fronto pursed his lips.

‘That’s an inn, right?’ He pointed to a large building at the very end of the wharf, with a ground floor of stone and a timber upper, lights shining in the shuttered windows already and a painting of a mug on the wall by the door.

‘It is. Not a large one, though. I was going to suggest the one in the town’s centre, which will accommodate the most men appropriately.’

‘They’re soldiers. They’ll just be glad they’re not in a tent. I like the place. Right on the edge. Come on - let’s go and introduce ourselves.’

 

* * * * *

 

Fronto straightened as he approached the large, well-constructed ‘council building’ of Divonanto. For a moment he wondered what the hell he was doing, but the image of the burned-out, desecrated landscape of the Nervii insisted itself into his mind’s eye once again, and he steeled himself. Caesar would not stop until Ambiorix was dead, for he had vowed it to Venus. And he would burn Gaul to cinders to do it, if Fronto couldn’t bring him his quarry first.

It came to him as he took in the surprisingly sophisticated town around him that, whatever his ostensible reasons for trying to prevent the searing of this land, as much of it was down to his growing respect for Gaul’s potential as for the security of the army’s auxiliary forces. Just as Galronus’ closeness over the past few years had Romanised the Remi nobleman beyond any expectations, Fronto realised that he had come to respect the Gallic aspects of his friend, too: his inordinate strength and self-belief. His honour and his truthfulness, which far exceeded any to be found in the republic’s seething capital. His love of - and protectiveness of - his family and tribe. There were things about the Gauls that should make Rome look to its own morals. And soon, if things proceeded apace, Galronus would be his brother. There would be a great deal of trouble for the family with the die-hard patricians who still believed that no one born outside Latium ranked above cattle, but the Falerii were nothing if not adaptable and hard-skinned.

His reverie was interrupted as Samognatos reappeared in the doorway and beckoned. Fronto glanced round at Masgava and his men. He had wondered whether bringing the dark-skinned Numidian would put the locals on their guard - a reminder of just how foreign their visitors were - but had settled on the ex-gladiator for two reasons. Firstly he was softer spoken and more accommodating than his fellow officer, and secondly, Palmatus had a legionary’s grasp of defence, pickets and passwords, and was therefore plainly the man to leave in charge of the inn, with its stores, horses and men.

‘Come on.’

Putting as much confidence in his stride as he could muster, Fronto strode into the building after Samognatos, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, the interior lit by a central fire-pit, whose smoke drifted up through a hole in the roof, and by three braziers spaced out around the edge.

The upper floor took the form of a mezzanine around the central smoke-hole area, reachable by ladders. Shuffling in the darkness above announced the presence of people on that floor, though they were invisible from below.

The ordo - the council - of Divonanto sat on a set of stepped benches at the far end of the room, for all the world like a Gallic version of the senate, though undoubtedly with more conviction, morals and sense than the Roman ruling body. Eight old men, each with a torc and silver and gold jewellery in evidence. None were armed or armoured, which gave Fronto cause for relief, since he’d left his own weapon outside with Quietus, along with that of each of the four men he’d brought inside with him.

‘Well met, ambassador of Caesar,’ intoned one old man, holding up a hand in greeting.

‘And to you, elders of Divonanto,’ he replied, pleased at the level of introduction. It seemed no one was going to stand on too much ceremony here - at least the cacophonic carnyxes were auspiciously absent. ‘We seek your counsel’ he added.

‘So we are led to understand. You seek news of your enemies?’

‘Of one enemy in particular,’ Fronto scanned the faces of the council. Impassive, but curious. Not the faces of deceivers or enemies. He felt his posture relax a little more.

‘You seek Ambiorix of the Eburones,’ the old man said in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘We do. We understand that he has made contact with the Nervii, the Menapii and the Treveri. Though we have not heard as much, we also suspect him to be initiating contact with the tribes beyond the great river Rhenus, as well as possibly wresting what remains of his own tribe from the control of his brother king, Cativolcus.’

‘First tell me,’ the old man asked, leaning forward with an interested frown, ‘why a small unit of Romans hunt their great enemy, shunning the trappings and symbols of your republic?’

Fronto nodded. It was a very fair question and one whose answer he was sure could only strengthen their position.

‘The general - Caesar, that is - has pledged to one of our greatest Gods to bring down Ambiorix. He will burn the world if he has to in order to complete that vow. I am sure you, living in such a sacred place, will appreciate the importance of a vow to the Gods?’

Nods all round.

‘The Nervii have already suffered his wrath for treating with Ambiorix, and he will do the same to other tribes until the rebel king is his. While the Nervii deserved what befell them to some extent, I seek to close the matter early and save the rest of the Belgae from further destruction. Some Romans see the only solution for the troublesome tribes to be their removal. Others - myself included - see that the level of cooperation that exists between our two peoples could be extended to all, and as such, we would prefer to avoid potentially opening a crevasse between our peoples with such destruction.’

More nods. Mutters quietly among the nobles in their own tongue. Fronto stood silent, patient, waiting.

‘Ambiorix moved among the Treveri little more than a week ago,’ the old man announced finally. ‘It seems that he stirs up trouble among them. Your general in the south put the Treveri to flight and killed Indutiomarus, but that unfortunate king has living relatives who would see him avenged. Ambiorix fans the flames of their desire.’

‘The Treveri,’ Fronto noted with a sidelong look at Samognatos. The scout looked unhappy. Not surprising, really, considering the possibility of moving into the lands of one of his tribe’s most rabid enemies.

‘Hold,’ the old man said, raising his hand again. ‘There is some indication that Ambiorix and his men passed into the lands of the Segni mere days ago.’

Fronto shook his head. ‘Not heard of the Segni. Who are they?’

‘The Segni are a small people who lie to our east,’ the old man replied.

‘They supply a cavalry force to Caesar,’ added Samognatos. ‘They are a loyal tribe.’

‘Perhaps no longer, if they now harbour Ambiorix.’ He looked up at the council. ‘Is this your latest information?’

The old man nodded. ‘Conjecturally, if he has moved from Treveri lands into the Segni’s territory, he may be making for Eburone lands again, home into his deep woods under the protection of Arduenna. Pray to your Gods that he has not done so, Roman. If Ambiorix disappears into Arduenna’s reach, you will never touch him.’

‘Don’t underestimate the tenacity and reach of Rome, my friend,’ Fronto said darkly. ‘Thank you for your aid. It is greatly appreciated, and I will make sure that Caesar knows of it. Before we leave, I would ask if you have had any contact with the southern tribes? The Arverni in particular?’

The old man frowned. The council began to chatter to one another again and Fronto squinted into the dim light to scan their faces. Years of facing off against men across a council chamber or a battlefield or even a game of dice had given Fronto a reasonable ability to read a man’s expression, and he was satisfied from what he saw that the council had no knowledge of the men who had apparently passed through here. Certainly if anyone was involved with them, he was an excellent liar and a master of maintaining a straight expression.

‘We know nothing of the Arverni, Roman. In fact, in these troubled days we see no one but our neighbouring tribes or your own people. Are we to be wary of the Arverni? I was under the impression that they were a quiet and uninvolved people.’

Fronto nodded quietly. ‘We were under that impression too, but that might be about to change, if I am correct. Beware any southerner entering your land, and Caesar and I would both appreciate knowing if they make contact at any time?’

‘I will make sure to do so,’ the old man bowed. ‘Will you be staying with us for the day? We were unaware of your approach until the last moment, but would be pleased to lavish a feast in your honour tomorrow?’

‘Tempting as that is,’ Fronto smiled, ‘I must decline. If Ambiorix is headed into the great forest’s depths, we must move on him with all haste. I am truly grateful, but we must leave as soon as we have consulted your druids in the morning.’

The old man nodded. ‘We will pray to Arduenna for your safety and success beneath her boughs. She is, after all, a huntress!’

Fronto smiled. ‘Then with the aid of my own ladies of Luck and Vengeance, how can we fail?’

 

* * * * *

 

Legionary Aurelius sighed with relief. Despite their position, far from the army and deep in Gallic lands, life had improved for him no end. For all Fronto’s warnings of what a place in this unit would mean, for Aurelius it meant no more digging latrines, raising earth ramparts or ‘soft duty’ - removing and cleaning the tribunes’ piss pots from their rooms. Even though he’d drawn one of the black stones and had to make do with finding a sleeping space in the hay loft of the stables, it was still a dozen steps above life in the old cohort.

Carefully, so as not to wake the rest of the slumbering soldiers, Aurelius descended the ladder from the loft, alighting in his bare feet. After all, he’d only be a few moments, and the ground was drier than it had been for months.

Taking a deep breath, he trotted out of the stable’s river-side door. The familiar shape of Drusus sat hunched against the wall, cloak wrapped around him for warmth in the chill of the night and fastened with the ‘naked girl clasp’ which had cost him a bundle a few years back. The heavier-set legionary nodded to him in recognition and Aurelius nodded back before wandering across to the river. Standing at the cobbled dock and grumbling about the ache of the lumpy uneven surface on his bare feet, Aurelius hoisted up his tunic and pulled aside his subligaculum, straining for a moment before a long arc of steaming urine jetted out into the wide, glass-dark river with a loud spatter.

Relief.

He watched the far bank, where only scrub bushes and occasional knots of trees punctuated the monotony of green slopes beneath the black-purple sky. From what they said about the great forest of Arduenna, on whose periphery they now waited, the chances of seeing such open spaces and such an expanse of sky again for some time were rather small. Some people said that the protector Goddess sealed off the sky with the boughs of her trees so that even birds could not enter or flee without her leave.

Turning, he smiled at Drusus, who was shuffling to achieve a more comfortable position under his cloak. Arduenna could go screw herself. No native witch was going to worry him. He took a step forward and something smacked into his forehead, obscuring his vision, scratching… fighting... blinding.

Aurelius felt a moment of true, earth-shaking panic as his vision was occluded by something black and flapping, pincer points digging into his scalp. He shrieked and threw his arms up in panic, simultaneously soiling his woollen undergarment.

The bat that had become tangled in his overlong locks managed to free itself and flit away into the night. Aurelius realised that he was shaking like a leaf and a steady, warm, unpleasant smell was rising from his nethers. Despite the explosion of raucous laughter that issued from Drusus where he sat on guard, Aurelius felt neither embarrassment nor anger.

He was too busy feeling bone-chilling fear.

Removing his underwear and flinging it into the water, aware of the trickle of blood running down from his scalp, he dipped into the river and began to wash his nethers with the ice cold water, all the while throwing up at the sky apologies to great Arduenna and her spirits. After all, if she could control bats, what was she truly capable of?