Chapter Nineteen

 

The forest of Arduenna.

 

The singulares moved down the narrow track, keeping close together. They were not the well-equipped, sizeable unit who had left Caesar’s camp what felt like years before. Gone was the pack train, almost all the supplies used up and what was left cartable by the men. Gone were the mounts. The area of forest they were in now was not conducive to easy riding, and the trail only Ullio and Samognatos seemed able to follow led often through terrain that no horse could negotiate. That hardly mattered now, since it seemed that Ambiorix and his men were also on foot. How else could they manage such terrain themselves. Gone also, however, were more than half the men.

Fronto ground his teeth as he did every time he made the calculation. Nine remaining of an original twenty. Arcadios, Quietus, Magurix, Iuvenalis and Celer alone remained of the sixteen chosen men, along with Palmatus, Masgava, Samognatos and Fronto. Ullio, of course, could hardly be counted among their number for all his presence.

And that meant that they had lost too many good men along the way:

Galatos, missing in the druidic town of Divonanto, presumably murdered by the traitor. Myron and Pontius, felled in the woods by Segni warriors. Damionis murdered in his sleep. Brannogenos - not such a good man, of course, fled into the woods to plan further harm. Numisius and Biorix alive - presumably - but sent back to Caesar’s army as messengers. Luxinio dead on watch when the animal-headed bandits had attacked, and Valgus also missing since that fight. And finally, Drusus, murdered on watch last night, though no cause of death could be determined without the medical expertise of Damionis. Damn it!

Nine men. Plus Ullio. And rumour suggested that Ambiorix’s small party of warriors would be a rough match for them.

It was a touch of a concern, given that they could not be more than half a day behind Ambiorix as the fugitive king made for the great river and likely to freedom across its waters among the enemies of Rome. What if they caught up and Ambiorix managed to best his pursuers? It was a real possibility, given how weary and travel worn they all were, the evenness of numbers, the unfamiliarity of Fronto’s men with the terrain and the desperation Ambiorix would be labouring with. Desperation lent strength, as Fronto knew from personal experience.

And yet when he thought deeply on it, Fronto managed each time to convince himself that he would win. Ambiorix may have the strength of a desperate man, but Fronto and his men had determination on a level undreamed of. And the sanction of Arduenna, apparently, added to his own personal deities Fortuna and Nemesis.

If only it weren’t for the uncertainty of what Brannogenos, the sigil-draped superstitious traitor, was up to somewhere in the forest.

One way or another it would be settled soon, and Fronto would invoke the name of Nemesis as he took that bastard by the scruff of the neck and bled him for every secret he had, before sending Caesar the head to put a final halt on the destruction, albeit somewhat late in the day.

His reverie swirled in surprise as something clanged off his helmet so hard it almost knocked him over. The small column of men burst into activity as figures poured out of the undergrowth to either side of the narrow track. Fronto reflexively drew his blade and turned. Already, Palmatus and Celer were armed and moving on the ambushers.

Fronto took a step towards them, the familiar rush of adrenaline at the instigation of a fight thrilling through him, but his eyes narrowed, and his feet were already skidding to a halt in the dust as his gaze picked out details.

No mail or helms in evidence. One or two of the more than a dozen attackers bore swords, but even they were ancient, rusted things. Most carried a sickle or a sharpened pole or various farm or craftsman tools. The big brute advancing on Palmatus with furious ire was clearly a smith, the great hammer swinging in his hand no weapon of war, but the tool of an artist.

‘Form up!’ he yelled. Masgava and Samognatos whirled in confusion, but the rest, trained with the legions to obey commands even before they’d heard them fully, were already back out at the dusty path centre, straightening into a line, weapons drawn and ready, but no longer threatening immediate violence.

Masgava and the scout took only a moment to realise what was happening and quickly back-stepped away from the fight. Ullio was already out front, hands up in a gesture of peace. The big blacksmith kept coming, his hammer pendulous, and Fronto stepped in front of the man, reversing his grip on his blade and using the hilt to push aside the hammer. The smith glared at him and began to raise the weapon, but Fronto simply shook his head silently.

Back at the edge of the path, where two boys too young to shave wielded farm tools threateningly, Ullio raised his voice and threw out a question in his own tongue. The smith, his head cocking to one side, narrowed his eyes at Fronto and stepped back to his people.

‘They are refugees,’ Ullio announced, waving at Fronto to put his sword away.

‘I’d guessed,’ the commander replied, nodding meaningfully towards the smith’s hammer as he sheathed his blade. The big man still eyed him suspiciously, but slowly upended the hammer and slid it through a leather loop at his side, where it hung easily.

Fronto turned to the rest of his men.

‘Sheathe your weapons. These people aren’t our enemy.’

The men of the singulares seemed more than happy to put away their swords and settled into an ‘at ease’ stance. The rest of the refugees, at a word from an old man with a pitted iron sword, pushed their way out onto the path. There were perhaps four dozen of them, mostly old men, women and young children. Barring a farmer and the smith, there was a notable absence of men of fighting age, which brought a lump to Fronto’s throat, since everyone present knew what that meant.

The old man rattled off into his own language at Ullio, who nodded, giving him a sympathetic smile, and then replied. After a short exchange, the Eburone hunter turned to Fronto.

‘I won’t distress you with the details. You can guess the main of it. These are all that remains of the settlement at the head of the white river. It seems one of the Roman forces passed through here almost a week ago, though they don’t know who led it. After burying the dead and gathering up what they could find, they are moving west and south, towards the Treveri, hoping to find sanctuary and land to begin again.’

Fronto tried to give them a sympathetic smile. ‘For what it’s worth, you can give them my apologies that a feud between two men has expanded so much that it’s even engulfed their village. I would recommend that you direct them to Atuatuca. The people there seemed to be willing to try and rebuild, and now that that area has already seen devastation, they will be unlikely to see Romans there again in the foreseeable future.’

Ullio nodded and translated his words to the old man. A look of mixed hope and gratitude swept through the refugees at the news that they might still find a home among the Eburones.

Palmatus and Masgava stepped forward to Fronto’s side as the native hunter went back to deep conversation with his countrymen.

‘This situation is getting out of control,’ the big Numidian muttered at him. ‘Pretty soon this land won’t be worth Rome having. It’ll just be a wasteland of ash and misery. Like Carthage,’ he added darkly.

Palmatus sighed. ‘It’s down to us to stop it, my friend. Caesar’s not going to halt any time soon.’

‘When I find Ambiorix, as soon as I’ve wrung a few answers out of the prick, I’m going to skin the bugger alive for bringing this on.’

‘You might want to consider Caesar’s part in it,’ nudged Masgava, and Fronto’s eyes hardened.

‘He’s a mile from innocent, but let’s not start talking about skinning the general, eh? He has big ears that hear many things.’

‘Ambiorix?’ muttered a voice.

Fronto frowned. The smith with the big hammer, standing not far from the three of them had narrowed his eyes to slits and was peering intently at Fronto.

‘Did you say Ambiorix?’ the Roman asked.

The smith immediately started babbling off in his own tongue and turned to the old man, involving him in a conversation. Fronto looked back and forth between them.

‘Ullio?’

The hunter was already asking questions, deep in conversation with the two refugees. He turned with bright eyes and a weary smile.

‘You’re in luck, Fronto. We’re closer than we thought.’

Fronto found himself walking over to them urgently, Masgava and Palmatus at his shoulders. The refugees automatically moved back at their approach, but the old man remained, nodding and chattering with Ullio.

‘Less than an hour from here,’ Ullio said, ‘down a side track in a narrow valley.’

‘Gods, we’re close. We could nail the bastard to a post before the sun goes down if we hurry. We have to catch him.’

‘Well your luck holds,’ Ullio smiled. ‘The reason these people are all so on edge is that a Condrusi warband are ravaging the area on behalf of Caesar. These poor refugees barely got away from them this morning, but their presence has forced Ambiorix and his men to go to ground in a ruined farmstead and wait until they’ve moved on. These people passed that same farmstead just now and were hurried on by Ambiorix’s warriors.’

Fronto grinned. ‘You’ve got the directions?’

Ullio nodded. ‘Very close. Fronto?’

‘Yes?’

‘I cannot go further with you.’

Fronto’s smile slipped a little. ‘What?’

‘You must have known that I was never going to help you torture and kill my king, no matter how much I dislike him? I cannot help you at the end. I have brought you this far, but what Rome must do to my king, she must do without my help.’

A sad smile crept across Fronto’s face. He’d never given thought to what would happen when they caught up with Ambiorix, but in retrospect it would be harsh and unrealistic to expect Ullio to take part in Ambiorix’s end. He reached out a hand. Ullio looked at it for a long moment, and then responded, clasping forearms in the universal gesture of comradeship.

‘Where will you go? Back to Espaduno?’

‘Soon. First I will travel to Atuatuca with these people. Perhaps we can all aid one another. The Eburones will need a great deal of strength and unity to come back from the brink of the pit into which your general has driven us.’

He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Whatever happens in the coming months, I hope you escape it unharmed. Decent Romans are hard to come by.’

Fronto laughed quietly. ‘Can’t say I disagree with that. But it is equally good to have travelled with a decent Eburone. When we are done, I will make sacrifices to Arduenna for your continued wellbeing.’

Ullio smiled and turned, pointing off down the trail.

‘Follow the main track until you find a split oak, which the locals call the Horns of Cernunnos. It’s quite striking, so you’ll find it hard to miss. It stands at a crossing of paths in the forest. Take the right side, down a steep slope into the narrow valley. After a very short walk you should be able to see the farmstead in the bottom. Approaching will be difficult, the old man says, but there is a stream bed which is dry in the summer, and might afford you a reasonable approach.’

Fronto stood for a moment, committing the directions to memory, and clapped his palm on Ullio’s shoulder. ‘I think we can take it from here. Good luck with your people, Ullio. I hope your family are well. Perhaps, when things have returned to normal, we will bump into one another again.’

‘Don’t take it the wrong way, Fronto, but I hope we don’t. Arduenna shelter you until your task is complete.’

The Roman stood on the path and watched the refugees file away towards the south-west, Ullio walking with them. None of them spoke to the singulares as they passed, and precious few even spared them a glance. He continued to watch silently until they rounded a corner and were gone from sight, and then cleared his throat and turned to his men.

‘This is it, lads. Less than a mile away, our quarry hides in a derelict farm. He hides from the Condrusi, apparently. Let’s give him something else to worry about. Everyone ready?’

A chorus of affirmatives greeted him, though unenthusiastically. Despite now being moments away from their goal, the reality that they had lost so many comrades and still faced dangerous odds weighed heavily, given that they had already failed to prevent so much destruction in their extended mission. No one would feel good about it.

Except Fronto. Because he was sure that Ambiorix would be a repository of vital information on the druids and their planned uprisings. And he was going to squeeze every last morsel from the fugitive king before he wrung his neck.

He breathed deeply, his sense of purpose renewed.

‘Right. Let’s end this.’

 

* * * * *

 

The farmstead had been destroyed by Caesar’s men in the preceding days, which provided both a hazard and a benefit to the small group of singulares as they moved into the valley. Of the four structures that had formed the farm, only one retained its roof, and even that was damaged in places, and was charred - hardly rainproof. That narrowed down the choice of location and defensive positions, which was a bonus. Caesar’s ravaging, however, had destroyed the small field of crops and had burned back the undergrowth and trees, giving the building a good defensive line of sight, which was bad for Fronto.

The ten men crouched among the trees halfway down the dry stream bed - a nature-provided path of gravel and smooth stones that gave easy access through the forest and down the slope.

‘See there?’ Palmatus pointed, and the rest followed his finger.

‘I see them. Three of them, in that ruined building.’

‘It was a granary,’ Samognatos said quietly. ‘If you look carefully you can see the shadows of the stilts upon which it stands.’

Fronto snapped a glance at Masgava, who smiled and nodded, turning to the others. ‘Iuvenalis, Celer and Magurix: reckon you could get to the granary without being seen?’

Magurix grinned with what Fronto thought was perhaps a little too much eagerness for comfort. ‘With ease!’ Celer and Iuvenalis looked at one another for a moment and then both nodded their agreement.

‘Alright. You’re the first ones in, then. Get underneath that hut and mark your targets. As soon as the rest of us make our move, deal with them as quickly as possible. As quietly as you can, too, but speed will be more important than stealth. Be fast.’

The three men nodded.

‘No sign of anyone else, but we reckon from rumour there’s a dozen of them. That means nine more. There can’t be nine in that one intact hut with any level of comfort. Six or seven at most.’

‘Wait!’ Masgava whispered. ‘There!’ he added, pointing out across the valley. The rest tried to pick out what he’d seen, and it did not take long to spot the warrior leaning against a tree, alert but bored, halfway up the far side of the valley.

‘Crap. If they’ve got men out on watch, there’s probably more,’ Fronto hissed. Every pair of eyes scanned the trees pensively, and Samognatos clicked his fingers and then pointed. The rest peered into the woods and eventually picked out the man not far from their own position, sat on a rock and leaning back sunning himself, eyes closed and almost asleep.

‘We’re bloody lucky he’s not bright. If he’d been looking the right way at the right time, he’d have seen us coming down the stream.’

Palmatus rubbed his neck and sighed. ‘If there’s one at the valley head and one on the far slope, you can bet there’s at least one more somewhere along this side, where the slope lowers, probably.’

‘Too many to send men to. If we set a man to each, we might not have sufficient force to take the house,’ Fronto sighed. ‘It’s a problem.’

‘I will deal with them.’

Fronto turned a frown on Samognatos and the Condrusi scout shrugged, his strange grin at odds with the seriousness of the situation.

‘They are far from alert, and are spaced out. I am the only man here who can move through the woods with any degree of stealth. It makes sense. I will remove the outer watchers one at a time.’

Fronto looked into the man’s eyes and, seeing only resolve and confidence, nodded. ‘Do it. There is no need for you to come down to the main settlement, then. When you’re done, keep watch out here.’

‘Which leaves the hut,’ Masgava said quietly. Six or seven men at most. You, me and Palmatus, Arcadios, Quietus and Aurelius. Six men. Roughly even… odds I can live with.’

Fronto nodded his agreement. ‘With one exception. Arcadios? You once told me your aim was unerringly true. What’s the range on that Cretan bow of yours?’

‘From here, sir? Pretty much anything in the farmstead with a good degree of accuracy.’

‘See that rock the picket’s sunning himself on? That’s got a lovely view. As soon as Samognatos takes him out, you take his place. You’re our last chance. Follow Samognatos with your arrow and if he gets into trouble, help him. Then train down on the farm. The three in the granary. If any of them live through our assault, deal with them. Then concentrate on the main hut. There’s only one door and we’ll be going in through it. But there’s a couple of windows, and anyone that manages to get out of the hut gets an arrow in the leg. Stop them running, but no killing blows. Understood?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Good.’ Fronto looked around his men. They were not the Tenth Legion. In fact they were a terribly mismatched, non-military bunch. A former gladiator, a retired veteran, three legionaries, an engineer, an auxiliary bowman and two Belgae. But he’d come to think of them as a unit, and they were, frankly, as good a command as he’d ever held. They all bore hard expressions of determination.

‘Samognatos. Move out.’

 

* * * * *

 

Fronto and his eight companions crouched behind a wind-felled tree, just off to one side of the stream. The undergrowth would crack and rustle, but the area by the stream was mostly grass, so not too bad, whereas their nailed boots would clack and crunch on the stone of the stream bed and would be far too noticeable as they closed on the enemy.

Each man watched tensely as the strange, silent, ghostly shape of Samognatos moved through the woods. Since the man usually travelled with the rest of the singulares he rarely had need for stealth, and none of the others had truly appreciated his skills until they watched him in the valley. He’d barely left the stream bed before he vanished from sight among the trunks, only appearing here and there in brief flitting glimpses. Moreover, while the rest of them would have made a noise like a war elephant crashing through that undergrowth, they heard nothing of his movements, the slightest whisper of his passage concealed beneath the breeze gusting through the leaves.

‘Shit, that man’s good,’ Palmatus hissed as the Condrusi scout vanished once more among the leaves and then suddenly appeared almost from nowhere immediately behind the picket who sat on the rock enjoying the sunshine. They never saw what happened to him… the man simply disappeared from sight behind the rock, Samognatos’ arm round his throat. A moment later the scout stood and signalled them before moving off for the watcher at the far side of the valley.

‘This is it, then,’ Fronto hissed. ‘Arcadios, get to that rock and take aim. Magurix, Iuvenalis and Celer, peel off to the left as soon as we reach the bottom and make for the granary. As soon as you’re in position, we’ll break cover for the main hut door and everything will happen at once. Be ready.’

As the three men nodded and the Cretan archer moved off, Fronto took a deep breath and scanned the woods once more. Brannogenos was still out there somewhere with treason and death on his mind. What if he were here, in this valley? It would not take much to cock this whole thing up.

He reached up and grasped the twin figures of Fortuna and Nemesis who hung on a thong at his neck, the latter a recent addition. They felt cold. Unseasonably, given the summer’s warmth. Something was wrong, but there was not a thing he could do about it without knowing what it was.

 

* * * * *

 

He never saw the second picket die. One moment, as he descended the rough grass by the stream bed with his men, Fronto had seen the man peering out across the valley. The next moment he was gone and Samognatos was visible only as a distant movement in the leaves, making for the lower valley end and the likely position of a third watcher.

This was it. Praying that Arduenna was still watching over them now that Ullio had left, Fronto gave his favoured Goddesses a last squeeze and gestured left.

Magurix, big and muscular, shieldless and with heavy blade in hand, moved off, with the hardy figures of Celer and Iuvenalis at his heel, using an old, charred fence and hedge to close on the ruined granary where the three Eburones waited. Fronto felt himself shivering with the tension. All he wanted now was to get in that hut and pin Ambiorix to the floor. He’d been so close before now, and to be this near was making him twitch, especially with his strange sixth sense playing up.

The big Remi and his two legionary companions reached the end of the hedge and paused as one of the Eburones moved past a ruined aperture in the wall, taking a moment to peer out but seeing only what he expected: nothing.

Then they were moving again. Fast but careful across lush grass that kept their footsteps quiet. Just as a second warrior appeared at that broken wall with its wide hole, taking a slug from a water-skin and spitting out onto the grass, the three singulares ducked and hid beneath the raised floor of the granary - necessity of design keeping it raised from the ground for healthy air circulation.

They were in position, and now crawling around to get ready for their attack.

Fronto watched as they disappeared into the darkness below, gave them the count of ten to get to their places, and then broke cover, waving the other four along with him - somewhat redundantly, given each man’s knowledge of the plan.

Such was their stealthy approach down the stream bed and their proximity to the farm that they had covered more than half the intervening space before one of the watchers in the granary managed to get out a brief word in his dialect which was quickly muffled as Iuvenalis appeared immediately in front of him and ran a gladius through his neck, jerking it this way and that to make sure the man died as quickly and quietly as possible.

No other sounds arose from the granary, attesting the speed and success of the other two, and the five singulares reached the main hut without any obvious sign that an alarm had been raised. Masgava was there first. Despite everything. Despite the training regime that Fronto adhered to these days and the speed of the legionaries with them. Masgava was and always would be faster and stronger.

The big Numidian hit the door like a battering ram, sending the wooden portal inwards in several splintered pieces, a single plank remaining to one side, smashed back on the hinges.

Fronto was in behind him, immediately followed by Palmatus, Quietus and Aurelius.

The interior of the hut was dim, especially after being out in the summer sun-dappled woods, and even as they barrelled in, their eyes were adjusting to the shade. The windows were closed, shuttered against discovery, and the hut’s occupants seemingly relied on their outside pickets and guards. But all five or six of those guards were gone.

Sure enough, there were seven figures in the hut.

It had never occurred to Fronto until this point how he would identify Ambiorix. He’d never met the man, and the lack of any kind of strategy for this issue displayed the most horrendous lack of foresight. But there was no time to think. Fronto singled out three figures who sat at the far side and who even now were standing and drawing weapons. Ignoring anyone else, those three were the clear leaders. The druid he discounted, hoping that whoever dealt with him would have the presence of mind to take him alive. That left two men who could be Ambiorix. One was clearly a chieftain or king, his gold in plain evidence draped about his body and his mail shirt of extremely high quality Gallic manufacture.

But it wasn’t him, whoever he was. The last figure - Ambiorix - had betrayed his identity with the most blasé and obvious of symbols. The helmet he thrust upon his head as he stood was that of a Roman officer, for all the native crest that had been wedged on the tip. Fronto had seen that helmet before many times, with its embossed bronze scene of the battle of the Caudine Forks, on the head of Quintus Titurius Sabinus. Had shared a flask of wine with its owner. Had counted him friend.

Fronto’s blood surged. So many deaths and betrayals. So many friends lost, some of them unavenged. The image of poor young Crispus, run through with a Gallic spear flashed past as Fronto dived for Ambiorix, snarling imprecations as he leapt, sword out and ready.

Quietus, off to the left side of the hut, found himself immediately faced down by an Eburone warrior with lank flaxen hair and a short-handled, basic-but-sharp axe in each hand. The man immediately began to whirl them in a strangely hypnotic manner in an almost figure eight fashion. Quietus frowned, bringing his shield round to take any blow that might come from them, while he readied his gladius for that single moment he knew would come, when he would spot the gap in the man’s defence.

Aurelius, mirroring him, moved off to the right as he burst in, diving for the first man. His heart was pounding as though he’d run a hundred miles to get here, and his skin prickled cold. He could feel the wrath of the bitch Goddess as he entered, and knew without any need for visual confirmation, that the beamed roof of this dim hut was home to bats. He could almost feel them flitting about him, almost hear them squeaking in the back of his mind.

His preoccupation with the ceiling was almost his undoing as his eyes flicked upwards into the darkness at exactly the wrong moment. The Eburone warrior lurking at the hut’s periphery brought his spear around and lunged as Aurelius saw the flicker of disturbed wings in the rafters.

Aurelius was lucky beyond belief. Though Fronto had ordered the singulares to strip their kit of Roman accoutrements, Aurelius had had the foresight to bring along his shoulder-doubling in his pack and, once it had become clear that subterfuge was not required, he had reapplied the extra thickness of mail over his shoulders. Thus it was that the spear point, aiming for the gap between his collar bones, instead glanced off the iron hook that held his shoulder-doubling fastened and smashed into his shoulder, scattering rings as it drove in deep through muscle until it scraped the inside of the shoulder blade.

Aurelius reacted in a manner that surprised him. Despite the intense pain that ripped through his shoulder, despite the bats preparing to deluge him, and the tangible presence of the evil Goddess, something had protected him, turning aside a killing blow and merely wounding him in his shield arm.

Instead of pain-freeze or panic, what suddenly coursed through his veins was pure fury as he lunged forward again, the spear jerking out of the Eburone’s hands with the movement, still jutting from the Roman’s shoulder. The warrior barely had time to scream before Aurelius set about him with his gladius, taking out on the man every ounce of irritation that had built since he’d entered this damn forest. A second of the hut’s occupants stepped forward to try and halt the fury and instead fell in turn to Aurelius’ terrifying onslaught.

Catharsis!

Palmatus, beside Fronto, leapt for the decorative, golden chief, noting with satisfaction Masgava beside him, aiming for the druid. His blade held high and shield presented for protection, Palmatus lunged. The ‘king’ was no warrior, young and uncertain. Despite the quality of his arms and armour, the sword he raised was in defence only, prepared to block Palmatus’ own strike. He would be able to deal with this little prick easily enough.

Palmatus felt rather than saw the space opening up beside him as Masgava disappeared from the attack and, as he feinted and lunged beneath the raised defensive royal sword, the singulares’ commander was suddenly smashed to one side when the druid slammed the iron-shod heel of his staff at his chest. Staggering, Palmatus righted himself, realising that with Masgava gone he was now facing both king and druid alone. Neither would be a tough concern, but together they might have an edge.

Gritting his teeth he moved in for the fight.

Masgava blinked. He’d had the druid in his sights when his windpipe had suddenly closed and he’d been hauled to one side in a stranglehold. With regret, the result of an instant decision: he dropped both sword and shield, his left hand going up to the cord around his throat and fingers prising beneath it to give him air, while the other arm came forward and then back again, folded to present a sharp elbow behind.

There was an explosion of fetid breath by his ear as his blow stuck home, and the pressure on the cord loosened enough for Masgava to rip the thing free and turn.

The man facing him was a killer. Masgava recognised the type instantly. He’d fought a few in the arena over the years. Not a warrior. Nothing so honourable. And not a murderer. Nothing so base. A killer. An assassin perhaps? Certainly a man who knew his craft and was comfortable with it.

The barbarian let go of the cord and reached into his belt, ripping out two long knives which immediately came for Masgava’s face. The big Numidian leaned sharply to the side to avoid the first strike and almost into the path of the second, stepping back sharply to gain some room. The knives whirled in a confusing, blinding cartwheel of shining steel. The killer grinned as the blades flipped out and back in the blink of an eye, scoring two lines on Masgava’s arm, then two on his tunic, two on his other arm. Nothing debilitating, but stinging and angry. Not a blow intended to kill - from the whirling to the strike the man couldn’t possibly have built up the power to drive a killing blow home - but enough to enrage an opponent… to drive him to foolhardy action and doing something stupid.

Masgava knew better. The man thought he was playing with a legionary: an automaton of drills and manoeuvres whose rigid adherence to tactics and discipline would render him unimaginative and somewhat at a loss against such an unusual opponent. But Masgava was no legionary, and unusual opponents had been his daily fare for years.

As the man prepared for a fourth and fifth strike with the blades, Masgava kept his eyes locked on the killer’s hands, but his foot was moving unnoticed in the shadows beneath them, seemingly independent of his calm upper exterior.

He brought the hob-nailed sole down as hard as he could on the killer’s foot, aiming to avoid most of the man’s boot and concentrate all his weight and pressure on the toes alone. He heard the smashing and cracking of bone and saw the man’s eyes widen suddenly at the realisation of what Masgava had done. One of the knives, momentarily mishandled in his realisation, flew from his fingers and skittered across the floor. The man reacted quicker than Masgava expected, dropping all his weight onto his other leg and flicking out with the remaining knife, drawing an angry line up Masgava’s forearm. Even as the Eburone struck the blow, his eyes streaming from the pain in his mangled toes, he was reaching up with his spare hand and pulling something from a hiding place on his back. The light steel throwing axe glinted in the gloom as the man hefted it ready to strike.

But Masgava had anticipated each move. He’d crippled the man’s left foot and naturally the killer had shifted all his weight to his right. As the axe came up gleaming, Masgava’s kick took him in the right knee. There was an unpleasant crack and the killer screamed as his leg gave way, the knee bending in an unaccustomed direction.

The axe, like the blade before it, fell from his fingers and clanged across the floor.

One foot mangled and one knee snapped, the man collapsed, useless, to the ground. Masgava glanced left and right for a moment. Only for a moment, to take in the situation. And suddenly he was on the floor. The man, despite the agony in his legs, had managed to grab his foot and unbalance him. Even as Masgava tried to roll back, the crippled killer was on him, one hand closing on his windpipe while the other reached into the clasp of his cloak and withdrew a slender, short blade from a secret sheath. The blade glistened with something dark running down its length.

Poison!

Masgava’s hand flew up and grasped the killer’s wrist, halting the downward momentum of the poisoned knife a finger’s-breadth from his eye. As the two men remained locked in the deadly embrace, the battle in the hut raging around them, Masgava felt himself becoming light-headed as his oxygen flow failed. One hand round his throat and the other struggling to strike home with the knife, the killer grinned.

‘Garo never fails.’

Masgava, keeping the blade steadily away from his eye, reached up with his free hand.

‘Assassins, Garo,’ Masgava rasped through the restrictive grip, ‘never keep blades like that alone. There’s always a twin.’ His free hand fumbled for only a moment at the killer’s cloak clasp before it found the hilt of the other tiny knife. In a fluid motion, he whipped free the second poisoned blade and jammed it into Garo’s neck.

The killer stared, his eyes wide as blood began to gout from around the needle-knife. The pressure suddenly loosened on Masgava’s throat and the grip on the knife. Masgava casually turned the man’s wrist until the blade pointed at Garo’s own face and then pushed, driving the blade into his eye.

With a heave, he pushed the killer off him and stood, glancing only once at Garo as he shook spastically and coughed up a black froth from both mouth and nose, as well as from around the knife in his throat.

A quick glance to one side and he noted Celer busily cutting pieces off a warrior who desperately tried to defend himself with an axe in his remaining hand. Similarly at the far side, Aurelius seemed to be having a good time, bathed to the elbows in crimson and spattered with gore and brains as he repeatedly beat a man’s shattered head on the floor, yelling something about bats.

Stepping over to the far end of the hut, he found Palmatus busy, too.

The grizzled veteran’s left hand, now divested of its shield and wielding his pugio, was fending off the feeble attempts of the young unnamed king, while his right was busy dealing with the druid. The man’s white robe was already blossoming red in four places and a steady trickle of blood ran from beneath it down the man’s leg, where it pooled on the floor. Yet the druid fought on with only the severed two-foot remains of his staff, hoping to deliver a strong blow to Palmatus whenever his gaze had to flicker to the young king.

With a smile, Masgava stepped forward and reached past his friend. His hands grasped the feeble king’s sword arm and he snapped it hard, so that wrist hung at a right angle to the arm. The Segni king screamed and Palmatus glanced at his friend for a moment with irritation.

‘I didn’t need any help.’

‘Just kill him. Always the last to finish, you… even at dinner.’

‘The way you eat, that’s no surprise,’ Palmatus snapped as he turned both weapons on the druid, feinted once and then slammed the larger of the blades through his heart.

‘You took your time, anyway,’ he snorted as he ripped the gladius free. ‘Spot of trouble?’

‘I was held up for a moment. Come on.’

They turned to Fronto.

The hut was done. Celer and Aurelius had finished the rest, while Masgava had put down the assassin and Palmatus dispatched the druid. The Segni king was busy clutching his smashed arm and weeping like a young girl.

Fronto appeared to have had a hard fight. Three small wounds bloomed red on his arm and torso, but Ambiorix had come off the worst. The man was battered around the side of the face and slicked with blood, one eye closed and puffed up from repeated pummelling. Ambiorix was a mess. Palmatus almost laughed as he realised that the unpleasant wound in the man’s cheek faintly displayed a mirror image of the Caudine Forks battle embossed on the helmet, from where Fronto had hit him with it. Hard.

Ambiorix was done for, though Fronto was still venting some of his frustration on the king’s body.

‘Fronto, stop!’

‘Don’t worry. He’ll live. He’ll live to sing like a little bird and tell us all about his traitorous friends.’

‘Mflhr…’

Fronto grabbed the limp king by the shoulders and lifted him closer. ‘What?’

‘Vthgtras…’

‘A little clarity, if you please.’

Ambiorix took a deep breath and formed the word slowly and agonisingly through his ruined mouth and between his shattered teeth.

‘Vercingetorix.’

‘Never heard of him,’ Fronto replied with a raised eyebrow.

‘You will do,’ whimpered the other king, nursing his broken arm and flooded with tears.

‘’What?’

Fronto flinched as something whipped past his face, and he stared in surprise as the feeble Segni king slammed back against the wall, a knife standing proud from his chest. The man gurgled and coughed up a wad of blood which spouted down onto his decorative golden torc.

In shock, Fronto turned, along with his companions - barring Aurelius, who was busy smashing up what was left of the warrior who’d apparently offended him somehow, bellowing curses at Goddesses and bats.

Magurix stood in the doorway, almost blocking out the light.

‘You daft sod,’ Fronto snapped. ‘He might have been as useful as Ambiorix!’

‘Sadly, yes,’ sighed Magurix, and with a deft flick of the hand sent another thrown blade across the room, where it narrowly skimmed past Fronto’s nose and slammed into Ambiorix’ throat, hammering in so deep that only the hilt projected as the blood began to pump from the king’s throat. Ambiorix sighed, apparently with relief, as he began to fade.

Fronto, shocked beyond action, simply let go of the dying fugitive and turned in confusion.

‘But why?’

‘Oh, Fronto. Can you not guess? Have you understood nothing about this great war of yours?’

A horrible realisation sank into Fronto as he stood and stepped forward.

‘My war?’

‘I am Remi, and my tribe serve the general. But I am also Belgae, and the general exterminates us. Do you not realise your army is riddled with auxiliaries who hate you? Who hate what you have done? Tribes that call you friend over a peace table plot your death with a dagger beneath it for your extermination of our people. But at last we have a chance. At last our lands can be freed of your menace. Not by that piece of filth over there who barely has the right to call himself Belgae, but by a Gaul, of all people. And I will not see all our hope flicker and die at the hasty confession of a petty king like Ambiorix.’

‘You? This was you?’

‘You’re so short-sighted, you Romans. And so trusting. A little misdirection here and a little nudge there and you do exactly as you’re told.’

‘Vercingetorix.’ Fronto said the name flatly, as if trying to commit it into his memory like carved stone.

‘Never heard of him,’ Magurix shrugged.

‘You’re a bad liar, Magurix. Despite all the times you’ve pulled the wool over our eyes, I saw that flicker in your eyes. You know who he is. He’s your Gaul, isn’t he? He’s your one hope for a Roman-free future? I’d be willing to place a hefty wager that he and this Esus we’ve heard tales of for two years now are one and the same?’ Fronto paused with a frown. ‘I’d also be willing to bet he’s an Arvernian prince. A tall one.’

Again, a flicker of surprised recognition in Magurix’s eyes.

Palmatus, grunting, stepped forward. ‘I am going to knock your bloody head off, sonny.’

‘No you’re not,’ Fronto growled. ‘He’s mine. And I want him alive to answer a few questions!’

 

* * * * *

 

Magurix stepped back into the open ground in front of the hut, backing out into the sunshine, as the singulares in the hut followed him out, tensely, their hands on the grips of their weapons. Even Aurelius seemed to have been jolted from his violence and stood with them, slick with blood from head to foot.

Celer and Iuvenalis, standing at guard positions around the other ruined building shells, turned in surprise as the group fanned out around the big Remi traitor.

‘What happened?’ Iuvenalis shouted over.

‘We found the traitor,’ snarled Palmatus, ‘but not before he did for bloody Ambiorix!’

‘I’ve got a name,’ Fronto said, his voice dark with impending violence. ‘But I think this bastard knows more yet.’

‘What if he just takes his own life?’ hissed Palmatus to his side.

‘I don’t think so. He may be a traitor and a murderer, but he’s also a Remi warrior. He prides himself on that, don’t you, Magurix?’

The Belgic warrior shrugged as he drew his long blade and hefted the weight.

‘And I don’t think he’ll just off himself when he has a good opportunity to kill me first.’

Again: a shrug.

‘So how about it, Magurix? Think you can take me?’

The warrior simply gave his sword a few test swings and set himself in a fighting stance. Fronto drew his own beautiful blade, the orichalcum hilt glittering in the sunlight, the images of Gods watching events unfold.

‘See, Aurelius?’ Fronto said, taking a few steps forward. ‘Arduenna has always been with us. It’s this twisted turd that’s been cursing us all the way. Your Goddess and her bats had nothing to do with it.’

Magurix swung his long sword in a slow figure eight, the blade thrumming through the air, the huge muscles in his arms moving around each other like cats lost in a sack.

‘Come on,’ Fronto sighed. ‘You’re boring me.’

The big Remi stepped a couple of paces forward and lunged, at maximum distance, the tip close to Fronto, enticing him to step into range. Fronto simply knocked the tip aside with his gladius. ‘Better. Now try and hurt me.’

Magurix back-stepped a single pace, and turned slowly. Fronto smiled as the big man kept turning, changing the move into a huge swing, allowing the weight of the sword to carry him two steps forward with the swipe as it came back full circle on Fronto.

But Fronto wasn’t there. As the big man’s back had turned, he’d taken three big steps forward, and was inside the swing. With almost subconscious precision, he delivered quick jabs with his gladius to the spinning, surprised Remi, one in the belly and the other in the shoulder. Neither penetrated deep enough to ensnare the blade but, as Magurix staggered in shock and Fronto danced back out of reach, the sword arm dropped to his side weakly and a small coil of intestine poked out of the wide hole in his belly.

‘See, the problem, Magurix, is that you think of me as an average Roman. I’m not an average Roman.’

Magurix frowned as he tried to lift the sword and, realising his arm was useless, changed hand with the blade.

‘In fact, I was trained by the best,’ Fronto went on conversationally. ‘By Masgava over there. And I know a few things about where to hit a man to cause him real trouble.’

Magurix snarled, but stayed safely out of reach.

‘Also,’ Fronto smiled wickedly, ‘I have spent years fending off one bastard or another. Rogue tribunes, assassins, murderers, traitors and big Germans. And I’m a little bit sick of always being on the receiving end. When I came back to the army, I decided it wouldn’t happen again.’

Without warning, he kicked up dust from the yard with the toe of his boot. The cloud of grit and dust engulfed the Remi warrior’s head, and he bent, choking and trying to clear his gaze. Even as the big Belgian attempted to straighten again, blinking away the dust, Fronto was on him like a cat. His left arm went around the big Gaul’s neck, while his right brought the tip of his gladius to rest on Magurix’s throat-apple.

‘The slightest wrong move now, Magurix, and it’s going to be agonising. Now I’m going to ask you a few pointed questions. If you answer them to my satisfaction, I will give you the benefit of a good, clean, quick warrior’s death. If not, I will cause you intense pain and then you will be bound and gagged for the journey back to Caesar, where you will be handed over to the tender ministrations of some extremely skilled men and their collection of hot knives. Do we have an understanding?’

Magurix strained and gave a hoarse rasp.

‘Don’t nod’ Fronto added with a wicked smile.

The Remi’s eyes changed for a moment. Fronto frowned at the shift in expression, wondering what he was up to and realised only too late what it was: resignation. Acceptance!

He tried desperately to pull back his blade, but Magurix had let go of his own sword and grasped Fronto’s right hand in his huge, enveloping meaty grip. With a single jerk, the Remi traitor pushed Fronto’s hand, driving the glittering gladius through his own throat and deep into his spine, where it crunched.

Magurix went limp with a defiant, unpleasant smile.

Fronto ground his teeth as he let go of the big warrior and the body collapsed to the dust. As he did so, the collar of Magurix’s mail shirt shifted, and something caught Fronto’s eye. Crouching over the gurgling, dying traitor, he reached beneath the collar and pulled out the leather thong that hung around his neck, gripping the thing that had caught his attention. He peered at the small silver figure. A cloak clasp in the form of a naked girl… Drusus’ most prized possession.

What he found came as no surprise as he worked along the thong: an iron-work sigil in the shape of some Gallic spirit - a trophy of Brannogenos, a man sacrificed to be play scapegoat for Magurix’s traitorous activity. A beautiful, decorative, copper-and-gold arm ring that had belonged to Galatos, who lay dead in some alleyway back in Divonanto. A surgical hook taken from Damionis’ medical satchel. A Medusa-image ring that had lived on Valgus’ finger. It was a catalogue of murder. Trophy evidence of Magurix’s deeds.

Slowly, drained of energy by the violence of the past half hour and the dreadful realisations of treachery that had dogged their every footstep on this hunt, Fronto rose like some Titan of legend, his face a mask of Jupiter’ thundery wrath.

‘Someone get back inside and take the heads off Ambiorix, that other noble, and the druid. Find a sack for each and then get your gear packed tight. It’s time we got back to the army, and there’s a fair way to go.’

Palmatus wandered over to him, rubbing his neck wearily.

‘It’s all been a bit of a waste of time, hasn’t it?’

Fronto shrugged. ‘Perhaps. We didn’t get to stop the destruction of the Belgae, and we didn’t get much of an interrogation in, but I do have one prize… a name: Vercingetorix.’