Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (28 page)

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Marcus Licinius Crassus, the richest man in Rome, commander of the eastern armies and invader of Parthia stood on the dais, his arms stretched tight and lashed to the wooden frame that kept him in position, head tilted back so that the sun seared his face. Only his legs had any real freedom of movement, and even that minimal. The only relief he felt was that this restrictive position meant he could no longer see the head of his eldest son Publius dancing around atop a Parthian lance among their officers, a prize taken in the mid-phase of the dreadful, appalling, decisive battle.

All he’d wanted was the military glory due to him. Pompey had stolen his credit for the Spartacus campaign, and Caesar was busy racking up the victories in Gaul. Wealth was important, but no man could control Rome without the respect of its people. Was he so disfavoured by the Gods that he must die out here, in the unforgiving sands, never seeing Rome again?

Perhaps the enemy general Surena would ransom him back to Rome? He was, after all, famed for his extraordinary wealth. And though he would never recover from the sight of Publius’ severed head, at least he could be there for his younger son, currently out in Gaul with Caesar. He had to be worth the ransom. He could afford to buy the Parthian King of Kings a second empire!

Something metal clamped around his head, digging painfully into his temples, holding his cranium in precise position with no fraction of movement. As he opened his mouth to shout in alarm, something else metal slipped in from either side and then opened like a vice, driving his jaws painfully apart.

What had the cruel monster in mind?

Crassus watched, immobile and totally helpless, as a large iron bowl at the end of a long staff appeared to one side, lifted above him. Thick steam poured from the top and the contents made unpleasant noises.

Blop. Gurgle. Pop
.

His eyes widened in terror and his voice came out in a high-pitched, feminine shriek as he saw the pot of molten gold hover above his open mouth and begin to tip. The scream continued for a moment, before it drowned in the liquid metal that burned its way through him in scant moments.

The corpse of the third master of Rome sagged in the frame.

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.’