Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 6

  "Of course. Go ahead."

  Was there a strange twinkle in the general's eye there? Priscus frowned. "With the deepest respect, general, I've kept things running smoother than they had any right to for the past two years and I feel I should have had a hand in the transfer decisions I've been hearing about. It's part of my role here after all."

  There was a pregnant pause and a tendril of sweet smelling smoke wafted across between them for a moment, half obscuring the general's face. When it cleared, Priscus was surprised to see the old goat smiling.

  "Sir?"

  "I have given a great deal of thought to the transfers. It has been difficult to work through, especially without your help, but I feel I have made the best of what I have."

  Priscus' eyes narrowed further, a leaden suspicion weighing him down.

  "General?"

  "You have served excellently as camp prefect, Priscus, and I can see no one who will adequately take your place."

  "Take my place?"

  "When you take up command of the Tenth."

  Priscus blinked and suddenly realised he was on his feet, his finger wagging. Damn it! He would have to make a conscious effort to stop himself turning into Fronto.

  "Respectfully, sir, I cannot accept."

  "You can. And you will."

  "You said yourself that no one will be able to do my job. Legates can be drawn from the nobs in Rome at the blink of an eye. You can have a dozen here in weeks. A camp prefect has to grow through the ranks and learn the trade."

  "A dozen callow youths with no military abilities can be here in weeks. But you and I know the value of having seasoned commanders. Yes, the centurionate run the army. Everyone knows this - even the great commanders like Pompey or Crassus who like to say otherwise. The centurions control every battle and I am hardly unaware of the fact, but until said battle is joined, it is the skill of the senior commanders that makes the overall strategy successful. And even beyond that we also both know how much better a legion works with a good commander when stacked up against the bad or the ineffectual ones. Some legates are so bad they're more use staying out of the way, but a good experienced legate can be a boon, and my stock of good officers is running woefully low."

  "General, I'm not a patrician or even a gentleman."

  "Really?" Caesar raised an eyebrow. "Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus? A man with three names is hardly from peasant stock? I'm aware of the Vinicii down in Campania. You may not play in the politics of the city, but one of your ancestors served as a commander under Scipio Africanus if I'm not mistaken." He waved a hand dismissively, causing air currents to eddy the sweet smoke. "Enough dissembling and argument. I need my best men in the most important positions and that means you taking over your old legion. No one knows them better than you."

  One man does.

  "True, I suppose, general, but I'm no commander. Can you really not give it to anyone else? And bear in mind I have weakened bones and a gammy leg."

  "I told you, Priscus. I'm short on talented officers. Fronto's gone, Cita retired, Rufus returned to Rome to deal with his family troubles, Galba moving up the political ladder and leaving the military behind. I've lost four good officers in half a year, plus a number of the better tribunes and lesser commanders. And with Crassus and Balbus gone not long before them, things are becoming stretched. New officers will be arriving in due course, but they will be green and untried. With the Treveri brewing a revolt and Britannia standing defiant I need the cream of the Roman military by my side. As for your physical issues, even weakened you're twice as strong as Cicero or Plancus, and your leg is only actually bad enough to inconvenience you when it's cold and wet."

  "It's always cold and wet here, Caesar."

  "And I've even seen you run on it these past few months. No, you may not be what you were three years ago, but you've recovered far beyond the expectations of any of the medics. So that's it: you take command of the Tenth. You don't need to worry about any of the transfers. I've decided on them myself and informed those concerned, and I will promote a replacement for you in due course when I have the opportunity."

  "My centurions will piss themselves, general."

  "I think not. I've met them. Those remarkably few who don't hold you in high esteem are frightened enough of you they wouldn't even whimper at your appointment. I do have two sets of transfers I've decided to leave to you, though, as they both concern you. That excellent standard bearer of yours - Petrosidius - who took the initiative on the beach last year? I'm moving him to the Eighth to take on their eagle, as their aquilifer passed on during the winter and an eagle deserves a good man. So you'll have to promote appropriately among the Tenth."

  Priscus nodded unhappily. The thought of losing Petrosidius to the Eighth was irksome. Not only were veteran signifers hard to come by, but the grumpy old sod was one of Priscus' oldest friends too.

  "And the other thing is your two spies - the centurions whose names escape me."

  "Furius and Fabius, general."

  "Yes. I need to move them from the Seventh. I have two other veteran centurions who have requested to be transferred out of Plancus' Fourteenth. It seems they are at serious loggerheads with their commander and they're about due their honesta missio. If I don't grant them their transfer they might leave the service and I'm not about to let veteran centurions go willingly at the moment. I'd like to bolster Cicero's command with quality men that I know will be utterly loyal."

  "Does it have to be Furius and Fabius, general? They're the top two centurions in the legion. Moving them could have knock-on effects."

  "I'm afraid it'll have to be. The two officers in question from the Fourteenth are Vorenus and Pullo. They're the top officers of Plancus' legion, so they'll be taking your men's positions. I know you'll find the pair some appropriate position with your last act as camp prefect."

  Priscus' jaw firmed. "With respect, sir, there's precious few places a senior centurion can move to that aren't a demotion. They'll not be happy."

  "Then you'd best make sure they are."

  "Do I have free rein, sir?"

  "Indeed."

  Priscus nodded once and straightened. "Then I'd like to assign them the rank of Tribune and attach them to the Tenth under me."

  Caesar's eyes narrowed. "They're both low rankers, right up from the roots. Good men, I'm sure, but not officer class."

  "Neither am I. You said you wanted good men in command? They're good men."

  Caesar opened his mouth to reply but paused, a faint smile touching his lips. Finally, he folded his arms. "Very well. See it done, Legate."

  Priscus stood and saluted. "Thank you, general."

  "Don't thank me yet. We have a lot of work ahead of us, Gnaeus, and only half the tools to handle it that we've had previous years. Go to your command. I'll have the relevant documents of commission drawn up and delivered and since you're still nominally in command of the quartermasters you might as well go draw your own equipment. Don't go mad though. No golden breastplates or the like."

  Priscus shook his head slightly at the unexpected turn of events and, saluting once more, turned and strode out of the door. Over the years he had watched Fronto bend under the weight of his command until finally, last autumn, he had broken. Now Priscus would begin to test the strength of his own mettle under the same conditions.

  Fronto!

  How he missed the old bastard.

  With a sigh, he exited the building into the cold, grey world of northern Gaul and made for the mess hall where Fabius and Furius would be waiting for him. They would not be expecting the tidings he was bringing, and he couldn't help a smile crossing his face as he imagined theirs at the news of their meteoric rise.

  * * * * *

  For the second time in two days, Priscus stood on the dock of the harbour watching the ships bob and bounce, the pale and drawn Brutus at his side.

  "We'll be back within the month, and Sabinus and Labienus are able commanders while we're gone. I don't think you'll run into
too much trouble."

  Brutus nodded with a resigned sigh. "Dividing the army nearly did for me last autumn. I don't like this at all."

  Priscus shrugged. "Itio is supposed to be little more than a fishing village with good sea access so you should have no problems. Anyway, Sabinus will meet you with two legions. Just make sure the fleet gets there in one piece. After a whole damn winter putting it together it'd be a shame if it turned up at Itio as floating kindling. You've got a month at most to get the fleet ready and all the supplies prepared. As soon as we get back from Treveri lands, the general's going to want to cross to Shitannia."

  "Don't get yourself killed out east, Priscus. It'd be a shame to get that shiny new helmet stoved in."

  "Don't drown. We'll be back in a month."

  Brutus gave him a half smile and waved him away. "Go on. They're waiting."

  Priscus nodded and turned to see Fabius and Furius standing at the far end of the dock, looking distinctly unimpressed. Despite being dressed in the thin-striped tribunes' tunics and the armour and helm of a senior officer, both men somehow contrived to look baser and rougher than any ordinary soldier. Not scruffy or unkempt in any way - both men had too much attention to professionalism for that - but it was hard to see them as anything other than centurions in the wrong uniform - like a sweaty, blood-soaked bull wearing a sheepskin and shouting 'Baaaa'. He almost laughed. Fronto had said the same thing of him the day he had first donned the Camp Prefect's uniform.

  "Morning."

  "Sir" the two men snapped off a salute.

  "Is the legion ready?"

  Furius nodded. "We were the first to assemble outside the gate in full kit. That Carbo has them working like a machine."

  "He's a good man. After me he was the best centurion in the legion. What of the others?"

  "The Seventh is lined up and ready. The Ninth are falling in now, and the Thirteenth are readying the supplies. Caesar's foregone a full wagon train for speed and settled for pack horses. Half the cavalry have given up their precious mounts to carry sacks of grain and timber. You've never heard so much grumbling."

  "Screw the cavalry. They only ever moan and chunter and most of them don't even speak Latin anyway. We'll be relying on resupply from the various store outposts that Cita organised before he left: Nemetocenna, Bavaco and Castrum Segnum are roughly on line for Treveri lands. Move fast and deal with them quickly is the general's plan. He doesn't want to be distracted from his Britannia campaign for too long."

  The silence that greeted that last comment spoke volumes about the two new tribunes' thoughts on the subject.

  "Come on. Let's get to it."

  The three men strode across the harbour and through the gate in the town's ramparts. The four legions and their horseback supply train were assembling on the wide swathe of muddy grass to the east of the town. Three legions stood in perfect order while the last escorted the supply beasts and their handlers into position. It looked woefully light and under-equipped for a campaigning force. So long as Cita's planning and organisation held, the trip should be easy enough though. Two days between each supply base and the final one on the edge of the Arduenna forest that was home to the Treveri. In a week's time they should be deep in the heart of the midden.

  Caesar and his officers sat ahorse at the front of the legions, ready and waiting to move out. In their absence, Sabinus and Brutus would move the fleet and supplies to Itio and Labienus would keep control in Morini lands with the remaining two legions. It was a remarkably simple setup, given the circumstances, and Caesar might well be right about one big gesture being enough to keep the natives in line for now, but Priscus would have been happier with two or three new legions raised first.

  With a sigh, the Tenth's new legate and his tribunes started down the hill to take their command.

  * * * * *

  "What was that?"

  Priscus turned in the saddle to look at Furius, whose voice had cut through the general hubbub of a marching army and drawn his attention.

  "What?"

  Furius pointed into the forest on their left and Priscus once again cursed the damned Gauls, the Belgae and every other race that revered woodland spirits. The journey from Gesoriacum had been mind-numbingly dull and each day, at the end of the march, the officers had sighed their relief and congratulated each other on a peaceful journey and the easy respect with which the locals had treated the passing army.

  Priscus had not felt relaxed or congratulatory. He had spent time in the streets of both Capua and Rome and he knew that easy reverence for what it was. In the cities, men looked at you like that and you immediately checked your purse was still there and scanned the nearest alleys for their mate with the knife. This was the quiet subservience of a people with something to hide.

  No amount of warnings had made the other officers pay any attention.

  And now, having passed the final supply station and moved along the edge of the great sacred forest of the Treveri, Priscus could practically feel the revolution in the air, crackling like a spark of lightning.

  And people constantly seeing things in the forest didn't help. Caesar had a few mounted scouts with the column, but they remained in the open, unable to penetrate deep into the trees and so steering well clear.

  "It's just another deer, likely as not."

  "I don't think so, sir" Furius replied. "Not unless the deer have started wearing armour. Sure I saw metal that time."

  Priscus frowned and focused on the treeline. After just a moment, he too saw a flash of metal within the colonnade of wide boles and the gloom of shadows their intertwined branches created.

  "Get ahead and tell Caesar."

  "Should we not raise the general alarm?" Fabius asked quietly.

  "There can't be enough there to be a threat to a four legion column in the open, not when they're only on one side of us. But whatever they're up to, they've not revealed themselves and so we can hardly account them friendly."

  Furius kicked his mount's flanks and rode off towards the head of the column and the commanders that rode together there. As the mounted figure disappeared into the dusty haze along the side of the elongated column, Priscus peered into the trees, wishing the sky was a little brighter. This dull, leaden-grey half-light played tricks on the eyes with forested terrain. Now that he knew what he was looking for, though, he could see them dotted here and there among the trees. Almost certainly they had archers with them, and the column was within bow range even for a bad marksman, so what were they waiting for?

  His intense concentration was suddenly shattered by the braying of what might charitably be called a musical instrument. The unpleasant, droning cacophony was joined only a moment later by other similar noises being played just enough off-key as to send a shudder along his spine. He had heard the sound of the Gauls' carnyx horns before and, while it was true that the noise put the wind up many of the men, it in equal parts annoyed and amused Priscus. It sounded like a menagerie of distressed animals being physically abused.

  His amusement remained suppressed this time, however. Too much of a coincidence to have a Celtic nobleman - for that was surely what the horn heralded - approaching the column at the same time as the forest to the side filled with apparent attackers. He had been sure there could not be enough men there to pose a threat to the legions. The woods would hamper the attack too much to be any real danger. And yet it had all the hallmarks of an ambush.

  "Carbo!"

  The pink faced centurion, senior in the Tenth, stepped out from the column and strode across to the new legate's horse.

  "Sir?"

  "Pass the word down the line. I want every pilum in the Tenth unshouldered and in hand ready to use."

  "Yes sir." Carbo was peering into the woods. "Treveri, sir?"

  "Probably. It's their hallowed forest. Pass the word."

  As Carbo stepped back into line, Priscus turned to Fabius. "Stay here and keep an eye on the woods. I'm going to see what the fuss is about."

  Fa
bius nodded and pulled in closer to the column as Priscus kicked his own horse and rode ahead in the wake of Furius. The Tenth formed the first legion in the column, with only the small cavalry contingent between them and the officers of the vanguard. As soon as Priscus moved ahead enough to see past the dust cloud kicked up by the horses, he spotted the source of the impossibly atonal noise. A small group of Gauls, perhaps a score in total - three of them on horseback - were issuing from some unseen trail in the forest on a course to intercept the column.

  Steady, Fabius. This could turn ugly any moment.

  As the small party approached, Caesar gave the order to halt the line, an order that was relayed in a heartbeat by the officers of the various units. As the legions and their cavalry escort came to an ordered stop, Priscus reined in alongside the officers. Furius was sitting close to the general and nodded to his legate.

  "Ah Priscus," Caesar said, turning to him. "You've spotted an ambush I hear?"

  "Perhaps, general. There are a number of men in the forest."

  "Then perhaps this noble comes to offer us an ultimatum? More fool him if he thinks to threaten or bargain."

  The less experienced of the officers in the van laughed dutifully, but Priscus simply squinted ahead, trying to make out the details of the approaching party. It was clearly a nobleman and his escort; his personal bodyguard. Priscus frowned. Why would the man put himself in such direct danger if he had a hidden army just waiting to pounce?

  He continued to puzzle over the problem as the men approached and slowed. The leader was short and stocky, barrel chested and with the arms of a legionary blacksmith. His hair was a copper colour and braided, and his molten-bronze moustaches drooped past his chin, giving him a fatalistic, unhappy look. The ornamentation of his armour and helm and the high quality sword at his side spoke volumes about his rank. Here was a prince among the Gauls. For some reason he looked strangely familiar to Priscus. Caesar was wearing an expression of passing recognition too.

  The Gaul must know that Caesar came to conquer; must know that Caesar was not a man to forgive or grant undue mercy. So why endanger himself when he could just send his men out?