Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 5

  Pompey frowned and gestured to Artorius.

  "Subdue him."

  The four men stepped forwards towards the big thug and his beam, cautiously but without fear. These were no ordinary thugs, but warriors - former legionaries and gladiators chosen for their loyalty and their skills and strength. They were the best muscle Artorius could purchase for his Dominus.

  The first man feinted, causing the barbarian to pull back his beam threatening a wide swing. Even as he did so, the man at the far side slipped past the giant and into the shop, getting behind him.

  The other two in the centre moved in for the attack, and the huge man swung the club. Both men ducked, allowing the beam to pass above them and strike the unfinished frontage, shaking loose dust, plaster and even a tile. The big man was a little shaken by the sudden impact that reverberated up his arms.

  The first attacker, who had feinted to begin the fight, took advantage of the giant's momentary discomfort and ducked inside, delivering several sharp and professional boxer-like jabs to the man's stomach. Pompey's eyes widened as the big barbarian simply let go of his club and smashed his fists down onto the boxer's shoulders. Impressive beyond belief: those rabbit punches would have almost any man doubled over and winded.

  Instead, the giant had smashed down his hands with such force that he plainly crippled the boxer, tearing the cord that ran from neck to shoulder on both sides and smashing one shoulder to a pulp of bone fragments. The guard collapsed to the floor, screaming and writhing.

  Immediately, the two who had ducked were up again, knives out, sweeping them in arcs, keeping the big man at bay while the one who had snuck around behind him suddenly jumped on the giant's back, his arms locking around the neck, entangled fingers pressing up into the throat apple.

  There was a silent, motionless pause and Pompey nodded, watching as the big barbarian began to sink forwards with the pressure on his throat, but then the fight swung his way again. The giant had not been collapsing forward after all, but moving deliberately in a planned move to dislodge his strangler. As he lowered, he suddenly dropped forwards to his hands, the guard on his back flung over his head and against the half-built frontage like a rag doll.

  As the unconscious guard collapsed by the bricks and the barbarian sprang surprisingly lithely back to his feet, the remaining two men moved in, slashing with their knives.

  The giant raised his fists ready to deal with them but the point of a long sword appeared just beneath his chin, the tip pressing into his neck and drawing a trickle of blood.

  "Care to back down?" Artorius asked softly as he appeared around the big man's side, his hand gripping the sword's hilt in a professional manner. Pompey was impressed. He had never even seen Artorius leave his side, let alone get behind the big man.

  The barbarian seemed for a moment ready to fight on, but Artorius pushed the blade and brought forth a small rivulet of crimson.

  "I am very well trained with this, my friend. If you understand Latin, understand that you need to lower those fists and put the hands behind your back. I will not hesitate to push this blade right through your neck if you do not comply on the count of three. One!"

  The big man's hands jerked indecisively.

  "Two!"

  The fists dropped, the hands disappearing behind him.

  "Pelates? Goron? Bind his hands behind him."

  "What with, sir?"

  "Use one of your belts." Artorius glanced sideways at the hulking colossus who glowered at his captors. "On second thoughts, use both your belts. Then go find some rope just to make sure."

  Pompey stepped forwards, making sure to keep himself just out of the giant's reach.

  "You speak Latin, then."

  "I speak Roman words."

  "That's some very impressive brawling, barbarian. Had you chosen somewhere else for your fight, I might have cheered you on or placed a wager; but this is my house that you are busy demolishing, and that peeves me."

  "Piss off, small Roman."

  Pompey fought the rise of his anger once more. Artorius was busy gesturing at the big man's neck near where the sword point had drawn blood.

  "What?"

  "Dominus… there is a mark on his neck. 'LT'"

  "So?"

  "It’s the mark of the slave trader Lucius Tiburtinus. He's had so much trouble with theft and runaways he started branding his property even before sale. This is a slave!"

  Pompey smiled unpleasantly. "Then he will likely die a very unpleasant death for this show. Have him taken to the Tullianum and incarcerated until we can identify whose property he is. If the trader is in the city at the moment, it shouldn't be too difficult, and then the careless master can pay me for my walls."

  The big barbarian glowered at Pompey as Artorius and his two men manhandled him away from the scene and out into the street, heading for the forum and the infamous prison of the Tullianum.

  Pompey sighed. It had started as such a positive day, too. He frowned at the guard who had been concussed in his fall and was busy rising to his feet slowly and shakily. He prodded the wounded man and pointed at the writhing shape of his companion with the broken shoulders.

  Chapter Two

  Brutus rubbed his chin reflectively as his eyes strayed back and forth across the sizeable fleet assembled before him. The ships, wider, flatter, and considerably heavier than the traditional Roman trireme, bobbed about in the harbour in response to the slight chop of the waves washing into the wide entrance from the channel. It was a breath-taking sight. Compared to the small fleet of the previous year it was as a legion to a century of men. The chill wind blustered at him and he folded his arms around his chest and hugged himself warmer.

  "It's what the general wanted, and I know it's practical and sensible, but four of our most experienced trierarchs and marine commanders have requested transfers to the legions rather than deal with Celtic-design ships, and the rest of them mutter prayers to half a dozen Roman Gods before they set foot on the boarding plank. They don't think I've seen them, but they're not that subtle."

  Priscus, standing next to him on the dock at Gesoriacum, spoke through gritted teeth. "I've denied all transfers. These overblown fishermen will get on whatever ship their commanders tell them to and they'll sail them straight onto the Styx if we demand it. I'm not about to be dictated to by a load of bearded, salt-stained arseholes who think they're indispensable because they know how fast a trireme can turn. We've risked enough rough seas with our own ships. The Gauls have been sailing these waters since Romulus hit his brother with a brick, so they know a thing or two about it. Time to learn from them."

  "I know." Brutus sighed. "I just wish sailors were a little less superstitious. It's been a rough month or two."

  "You think you've got problems" Priscus replied sourly.

  Brutus turned a sympathetic smile on the camp prefect. "He's finally got round to sending for you then?"

  "Not yet, but any moment now. All the senior officers have been called in bar you and me. Apart from everything else, I keep hearing rumours of transfers the general has decided on without even consulting me. I'm going to be picking up the pieces from it all for a month. I swear this job is the most pissy, irritating, mind-numbing career the military mind has ever devised. I've half a mind to resign the bloody role if the general's going to transfer people without my input."

  "If you resigned we'd be deep in the manure in a month. Since Cita retired there's no one else with the knowledge of camp administration and logistics. Crispus is a good administrator - he trained in the government back in Rome, but even he doesn't know the ins and outs of the army like you. You're it. I bet you're about to become official chief quartermaster too."

  "The general can go piss up a wet seaman's rope if he thinks I'm doing that too. I'm overdue my honesta missio. I could be running a nice little tavern back in Capua now, handling strong drink and soft pink women instead of standing in a wet wind watching ships bounce about in the current while my commander undermines me." />
  "Hello" Brutus said with a resigned smile as his eyes settled on something past Priscus' shoulder. The camp prefect turned to see two centurions striding across the muddy dock towards him. The two came to a halt before the senior officers and saluted smartly, three piercing eyes fixed on Priscus.

  "Furius; Fabius. Trouble?"

  "Not as such, prefect - at least not for certain. The general's just told his secretary to fix him some food and then send for you. Thought you might appreciate the 'heads-up' sir."

  Priscus sighed and nodded.

  "Thank you, lads. What are you up to at the moment, other than loitering outside the general's tent and eavesdropping?"

  Fabius had the decency to look uncomfortable at the accusatory jibe.

  "Marine training again, sir. Don't want to be caught unawares. And we've managed to procure a couple of the natives' chariots to practice manoeuvres against, so we've spilt into groups."

  Priscus nodded and gesturing a farewell to Brutus, turned and started striding back towards the fort on the hill, the two centurions falling in on either side.

  "Good. Can you work with the other commanders to make sure each legion is familiar with them? There's a warehouse-load of shit poised to fall on us this summer and I want to be prepared for anything."

  Furius pursed his lips. "Respectfully, prefect, do you think the general will cancel his plans?"

  "I don't see he has much choice. Can't go jollying off to piss-ridden islands on the edge of the world when Gaul's poised on a knife edge. You'd have to be an idiot and the general might be many things, but he's hardly an idiot."

  The three men stomped up the hill in silence towards the brooding fort. The light grey sky sat like a steel sheet over the town, depressing the spirits of everyone beneath it. Still, at least the snow had finally gone, leaving the entire north of Gaul a slushy, muddy quagmire. It was hard to imagine that Britannia would be any better, but at least the results of the centurions' investigations made that trip unlikely now. And of course, that would give Brutus more time to sort out his unruly sailors.

  The town of Gesoriacum brooded beneath the hulk of the powerful Roman fortifications. Caesar's response to the rising of the locals the previous autumn had been typically severe. The T-shaped timber constructions that had seen a hundred crucifixions and hangings over the harsh winter still stood like scarecrows to warn the Morini against any further insurrection. Here and there a ragged, dry skeleton still clung to one, all meat and gristle long gone through scavengers. There had been no further noise from the local tribes, but Priscus had wintered here; could see what Caesar couldn't during his sojourn in Illyricum. The Morini might look cowed, but the signs were there for anyone who cared to look. Resentment was deep and had grown with every fresh corpse. That messages were being passed in secret between the tribes was plain, even before Priscus had sent out his men to start tracking them down and proving his fears.

  A gesture meant to seal the lid on the fire pot of Gaul's rebel spirit had merely fanned the flames. The most worrying thing, to Priscus' mind, was the actual lack of minor revolts. Every season since Rome had followed the Helvetii into Gaul, some insignificant turd of a chieftain had roused his people to fight off the oppressor. And after the Morini, it had all stopped. No sign of trouble anywhere. Even the merchants had reported a Gaul at peace. Priscus was buying none of it from those traders - the lack of trouble did not spell acquiescence from the tribes. It spelled a change in the whole thing: a move from minor widespread rebellions to a deep, organised, hidden current of antipathy. Gaul was building to an explosion that would make Vulcan's detonating peaks look tame.

  And Caesar was busying himself with swampy shit holes across the water.

  Well Furius and Fabius' discoveries would have to change all that. Caesar couldn't ignore it any longer.

  By the time they reached the headquarters building of the fort, Priscus was in a deeply irritable mood - a mood that was in no way alleviated by the brooding presence of the two dour centurions that had spent the late winter and early spring confirming the trouble heading their way.

  The cavalrymen of Aulus Ingenuus, Caesar's personal Praetorian guard, stood impassive by the door to the timber building. Neither soldier blinked or made a move to stop the camp prefect - the most senior soldier of the regulars in Gesoriacum - but both narrowed their eyes at the accompanying centurions, Priscus was expected; companions were not.

  "You two head off to the mess. I'll meet you there once I'm done."

  Furius and Fabius saluted and turned on their heel, marching off towards the large hall that had been constructed to allow a warm, sheltered place for the soldiers to eat in the terrible winter of northern Gaul. Priscus straightened himself, wondered whether he should have changed, and decided against it. If Caesar disapproved of his scruffy appearance he could stick his thumb up his arse. It suddenly struck Priscus how he appeared to be slowly turning into Fronto, and his lip curled into a sour smile.

  With a drawn breath of cold, damp air, Priscus stepped inside, his hobnailed boots tracking thick, brown mud into the dry interior, overlaying the dried dirty footprints of previous visitors. The building reeked of burning braziers and incense - the former a necessity against the cold; the latter a recent affectation of the general, picked up in Illyricum. At least it stopped the place smelling of dung like the rest of this fart hole of a country.

  In the main room, the signs of almost constant activity lay all about: tables strewn with maps and tablets and lists, half a dozen chairs with bum-prints in the cushions, cups for water or fruit juice standing half drunk. Only two occupants remained in the room, though. Phillipus, Caesar's secretary, was busy gathering up documents and then scurried towards the door. As Priscus stood aside for the Illyrian scribe to pass, his eyes fell upon the figure of the general in his campaign chair.

  Gaius Julius Caesar looked older than Priscus remembered. His hair seemed to have receded noticeably over the winter and new lines marked his face - worry lines one might say. He sat in thoughtful pose, his eyes straying across one of the maps. Priscus had deliberately avoided crossing the general's path in the two days since he had returned to the army for fear of being handed the shitty assignments as was oft the fate of the general's first meetings.

  Priscus paused in the door for too long before announcing himself and the general suddenly looked up in surprise at the man loitering in the doorway.

  "Priscus? Come in."

  No preamble. No surprise at the prefect's mysterious arrival just before the order sending for him had gone out. No shock for Priscus, either. The prefect saluted wearily and strode across the room to stand before the general, his vine stick behind his back, clenched in both hands.

  "Sit" the general said quietly, indicating one of the cushioned seats with a casual gesture while his eyes continued to busy themselves with the map. Priscus dutifully did as he was bade and sat quietly, awaiting the general's attentions. Finally, after two dozen heartbeats - just the right amount of time to make a nervous man betray himself - Caesar smiled up at him. The man was like a lizard sometimes, he was so cold and calculating.

  "Priscus, I am grateful to you for your superlative efforts this past winter to gather intelligence on tribal activity. I am surprised, given your abundant duties, that you managed to find time, but I am suitably pleased. You must commend your agents for me also."

  Priscus bowed his head slightly.

  "Thank you, general. I am just pleased we've managed to grasp a thread of this evil blanket. Now we can pull at it and start to unravel Gaul."

  "Indeed." There was something about the general's expression that unsettled Priscus and he narrowed his eyes.

  "We are going to deal with them, yes, general?"

  "Of course. That is the very reason that I have returned more than a month early. Your news is timely. Now I can take a force east and tread on the throats of the rebellious Treveri before we cross the channel."

  Priscus let out an exhausted sigh and squeeze
d his eyes shut.

  "Surely, general, with such trouble brewing we should abandon the frivolous Britannia campaign and concentrate on consolidating Gaul? Iron out all the creases in one go?"

  Caesar's eyes hardened for a moment and Priscus saw the muscles in his jaw ripple.

  "I'm afraid I cannot afford to do that, prefect."

  "But general…"

  "No. The inconclusive result of last year's crossing has fuelled debate in the senate about my fitness to remain in the post of proconsul of Gaul and, while that gaggle of balding old women in togas do not unduly concern me, they are starting to sway the people; my people; my plebs. I must cow Britannia and chastise them for their interference in our affairs. I will not be bested by an island of barbarians. Besides, if the tribes of Britannia decide to throw in their lot with Gallic rebels we could face a much worse threat than we currently do."

  Priscus nodded slowly, aware that this was the sort of frank discussion that the general rarely held. In the old days it would have been Fronto that played the role of listener to such truths. No longer.

  "Then we must divide our forces to breaking point to contain Gaul while we deal with their cousins across the ocean, general. It is dangerous."

  "One gesture will serve to keep the troublesome Gauls subdued long enough. I will handle the Treveri myself and diffuse the situation for the time being, either by diplomacy or by extermination. Even if we cannot keep them down that way, it will buy me long enough to deal with Britannia. I shall take four legions east. Four will remain here."

  Priscus nodded, trying not to betray his true feelings on the subject. Britannia was foolhardy - a publicity stunt to repair the political damage from the failed landings the previous year. But the general had decided, and Priscus knew well enough when to leave matters alone.

  "General, I have to broach the subject of transfers and the officers."