Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (32 page)

‘You know the land that well?’ Antonius asked in surprise.

‘Never been there. But I’ve studied the maps and spoken to the officers who have. Come on. Let’s get things ready. Sooner we leave, sooner we can sort this mess out.’

* * * * *

Priscus reined in his horse as Antonius held up his hand to stop the advancing column.

‘Well?’

The prefect took a deep breath and glanced at the two scouts who had accompanied him as they moved back into position with the cavalry escort. ‘I think we’re in luck.’

‘Explain.’

‘Melodunon would be a nightmare to take unless we have naval support. There’s three islands strung out in the middle of the river, and the town’s on the big one in the middle. It’s connected to both banks by wooden bridges. Got good solid walls, too.’

‘Doesn’t sound that lucky to me.’

‘Lucky, because we’re not going to
have
to assault it. Looks like the place is undefended. Gates are open and no one on the walls. Hearth smoke and general noise says the town’s occupied, but not defended.’

‘So we intimidate them with numbers? No fight required?’

‘My thoughts precisely. Have the three legions move in full formation to the river bank near the bridge and look deadly. Then you and me - as well as the legates and tribunes - ride up to the gates and find out what we need to know.’

‘Fanfares and everything. Good.’ Antonius turned to the knot of officers following him.

‘Plancus, Trebonius and Crassus: have your senior centurions send the legions to the shore and form up facing the island, then bring your tribunes, eagles, standards and musicians forward to the bridge.’

The three legates saluted and returned to their legions, issuing the commands. Priscus and Antonius waited for the army to begin moving in concert, the Ninth and Tenth manoeuvring out to the sides to flank the Seventh and moving three legions abreast towards the low bump in the land and the woods around the edge of which the road to Melodunon passed.

By the time the army reached the treeline and approached the bend, the officers had all ridden forward to join the commanders and, accompanied by the pomp and fanfare of a Roman command unit, they rounded the bend and began the gentle descent to the river bank.

As Priscus had described, Melodunon was a long, narrow settlement, nestled on an island some half a mile long, yet only a hundred and fifty paces wide. Its heavy, high walls looked down on strong timber bridges that connected it to both banks, and onto the small, reed-swamped islands that sat at either end - a haven for birds and other wildlife.

Still no warriors stood watch on the ramparts, and dozens of tendrils of smoke wound up through the pale grey air into the sky. Melodunon seemed peaceful… passive. No hive of rebellion.

‘Doesn’t look like much of a prize,’ Antonius noted.

‘We’re not here for conquest,’ Priscus reminded him quietly. ‘Just for information, right now.’

As the legions moved into position at the river’s edge, a gleaming mass of silver and red, the officers walked their horses out onto the bridge. At Antonius’ cue the musicians began to intone a repetitive rising scale in harmony, which echoed out across the water and back from the walls of the small oppidum.

‘Still no one on the walls,’ Antonius noted. ‘If it weren’t for the background noise and the smoke I’d say the place was deserted.

Priscus nodded, his own curiosity piqued.

Slowly and purposefully, in time with the blasts of the cornicen, the officers’ horses rapped across the heavy timbers of the bridge. Still, the gates stood open. Finally, when they were perhaps two thirds of the way across the bridge, a figure stepped out from behind the walls and into the centre of the gate.

‘Go!’ it commanded in an old, reedy voice, the Latin heavily thickened with Gallic harshness.

‘Could this be the leader of the town?’ Antonius asked Priscus incredulously.

The two men looked at the warrior. He was not a young man - clearly more than a decade older than Antonius, but his arm rings denoted a martial past of some merit. As they watched, two younger, though less decorated, warriors stepped out to flank him.

‘The Senones,’ Antonius announced loudly and with the booming depth of a skilled orator, ‘have not sent a deputation to the Gaulish assembly called by Caesar. At this time, the Proconsul’s courier, who carried the summons, has also not returned, and nor has his escort.’

‘Go!’ repeated the old man. Though he stood with his sword still sheathed, the younger men to his sides pulled out their blades and hefted them.

‘Why was no deputation sent?’ Antonius demanded.

‘Go!’

‘Or you and your two trained apes will fight off twenty thousand soldiers? Do not make me laugh, old man. Answer my question.’

The old man reached out to one of his companions, who handed him something. With a contemptuous flick, the man cast the object forwards and it hit the wooden surface of the bridge and bounced to rest near the front hooves of Antonius’ horse. It was a roll of parchment in a bronze ring, sealed with red wax. The beige parchment was dotted with other crimson marks that clearly were
not
wax. Though no one could see the seal from this distance, there could be no doubt that this was the document borne by the courier sent to the Senones.

‘Your answer is duly noted,’ Antonius growled.

‘Send in a century of men and secure the gate,’ Priscus barked to the nearest tribune - he wasn’t sure what legion the young man was from, but he looked excited.

‘Hold that command,’ Antonius raised his hand. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

Lifting himself over the horns of the saddle, the officer slid from the horse’s back and down to the bridge, where he stooped to collect the scroll. The blood was long dried. Turning it to confirm Caesar’s Taurus seal, he walked steadily forward towards the three men in the gateway.

‘What the hell is he doing?’ muttered Priscus, mostly to himself, and then leaned back to Trebonius. ‘Have a century of men brought forward ready anyway. Just in case.’

Trebonius nodded and relayed the order as they watched the scene before them. Antonius stopped half a dozen paces from the old man. The Gaul’s two companions, hefting their swords menacingly, stepped slightly forward as the commander raised the scroll and held it forth.

‘In the name of the Proconsul of Gaul and the ongoing Pax Romana, I offer you once again Caesar’s summons, that you send your emissary to the assembly.’

The old man spat, missing the scroll by several feet, but conveying his meaning well nonetheless.

Slowly and with deliberate menace, Antonius drew his sword, the rasp as it left the scabbard cutting through the background noise with a bone-chilling sound. The two younger men stepped forward again.

‘Go!’ shouted the older one.

Antonius took another step forward, and the two younger warriors moved to intercept. His arm low and the blade down by his side, the Roman commander looked casual, as though he were moving in for an informal chat.

The warrior to his left was the first to make his move. His long, Gallic blade came up to his shoulder, where he now grasped the hilt with both hands, and then he swung, the sword coming down in an unstoppable arc towards Antonius’ shoulder.

The Roman officer took an extra, nimble, half-step to the left - dropping the scroll - and, as the sword fell past his shoulder, he lashed out like an uncoiling cobra, smashing the point of his expensive, decorative gladius into the man’s throat-apple, slamming it in hard enough that it completely severed the spine and the man’s neck gave way with a loud crack, the head lolling and flopping to the side. The sudden lack of bone support aided Antonius in retrieving his blade, which he ripped out in a single movement, swiping it round just in time to block the second attacker’s sword, the blades meeting with a clang and then scraping and rasping along one another in an attempt to break the lock in which they found themselves.

Priscus watched in surprise. He’d seen many sides of Antonius in the short time the man had been serving with the army in Gaul, but he’d never for a moment expected a natural-born killer, too.

The second warrior was concentrating on the blade and on gaining control of the struggle, but Antonius had different ideas: keeping the struggle deadlocked with his right arm, he reached up with his left and with simple, violent economy of movement, put out the Gaul’s eye with his finger.

The warrior screamed. The sudden agony and blindness and shock devoured him and the struggle for the blades was forgotten. Not by Antonius, though. As the man’s strength went from the blade, Antonius turned slightly and allowed the big Gallic sword to slide past, flicking his gladius up and across and opening up a second mouth below the young warrior’s chin.

It had all taken maybe five heartbeats.

One young Gaul lay on the timber, his head at the most astoundingly odd angle, a spreading pool of blood beneath him, dripping between the timbers and into the river below. The other sank to his knees, the arterial spray coating the bridge before him as he collapsed dead onto his face.

The old man, shocked into sudden action, reached down to the hilt of his sword and grasped it.

‘Uh, uh,’ Antonius denied him, raising the tip of his gleaming red blade and resting the sharp point on the man’s neck where his collar bones met. ‘Leave the sword.’

‘No kill!’ shouted a female from somewhere behind. Keeping the sword exactly where it was, Antonius looked up over the old man’s shoulder. Three women had scurried into the gateway. One was white as a sheet, another blubbering uncontrollably. The third - the older one - was watching with hopeless dismay. She spoke again. ‘No kill!’

‘Where are the warriors of Melodunon? Why have you not attended the summons to assembly?’

The old man tried to motion the old woman to silence, but Antonius applied a little pressure and the blade broke skin, stopping him.

‘Men go Agedincum. Go for chief.’

Antonius nodded. ‘Good.’ He turned his head. ‘Hear that, Priscus? Agedincum. The chief’s gathered the warriors.’

Priscus nodded. ‘Might have a fight after all, then.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ Antonius kicked the old man in the knee and the ‘protector of Melodunon’ fell back with a hiss of pain as the Roman sheathed his blade. ‘Look after him, old woman. He’s got balls of iron, this one.’

With a carefree laugh, Antonius turned and walked back across the bridge towards the army, pausing only to pick up the scroll he had discarded during the fight. He tucked it away into the large pouch at his belt and produced - Priscus couldn’t even imagine from where - a small wineskin, which he lifted and began to pour into his mouth as he walked.

The man was one constant surprise.

* * * * *

Agedincum was something of a different prospect.

The ramparts of the oppidum were more impressive than those of Melodunon, but its positioning less so. Instead of a commanding island position mid-stream, Agedincum sat on a low mound in an area of damp marshy ground, apparently constantly affected by the river and which would present a horrible danger to attacking troops. Its walls were as packed with warriors as Melodunon’s had been empty, and the very prospect of taking the oppidum soured the soul of every Roman present.

‘What’s the plan?’ Priscus asked Antonius wearily.

‘I thought Caesar sent
you
along as the ‘plan man’?’

‘Caesar sent me along to help guide things, and I did just that by directing you to Melodunon first.
You’re
supposed to be the tactical genius here. I’m still just a glorified centurion with a superiority complex.’

Antonius laughed. ‘Actually, I have no intention of launching an assault.’

‘Oh really?’

‘No. You saw at Melodunon how easily these people capitulate with the appropriate encouragement. I have no desire to lose a legion’s worth of men in these festering marshes in order to storm a well-defended town of little or no long-term strategic value.’

‘So what do you plan to do?’

‘Your knowledge of the area sounded pretty thorough when you were planning this little pleasure jaunt. Just how well
do
you know it?’

‘Better than most Romans, I guess.’

‘Then when I give you the cue, I want you to supply a few nice rural or peaceful places. Fishing villages, small unwalled towns or religious sanctuaries. That sort of thing.’

‘Alright,’ consented Priscus with a suspicious frown.

‘Come on. Just you and me.’

Priscus blinked in surprise as Antonius started walking his horse forwards. The marsh was traversed by means of a number of tracks created using timbers sunk into submerged causeways that provided a relatively solid surface, though even these were often hard to spot and occasionally vanished from sight.

‘This is clearly insane, Antonius,’ he grunted as he caught up and followed the senior commander, watching the swampy ground nervously and keeping the slimy timbers in sight as much as possible.

‘I thought you were all in favour of solutions that did not involve endless bloodshed and burning?’

‘Not if it means riding on my own up to the enemy walls and baring my arse at them while they try to loose arrows up it!’

Antonius laughed and drew out his mysterious wineskin, taking a swig.

‘We’ve got the upper hand. Don’t worry about it. Have some wine and try to resist the urge to bare your buttocks to anyone.’ He held out the skin and Priscus took it gratefully, sucking down several mouthfuls of apparently unwatered wine before he handed it back.

‘Smooth,’ he rasped though his battered throat. ‘What’s it made from: sheep or thistles?’

‘Probably both. It’s made by the Gauls. Bet you didn’t even know they made wine.’

‘They don’t. Whatever that is, it doesn’t deserve that name. It’s probably good for searing the rust off armour, mind.’

Again Antonius let out a mirthful burst of laughter.

‘Truthfully…’ Priscus urged, ‘what are we going to do? We’ll have to stay outside arrow range. The opportunity to stick feathered shafts in two well-dressed Romans is not something any rebellious Gaul is going to pass up.’