Hades' Gate mm-5, page 41
part #5 of Marius mules Series
By the time Vorenus was at his side, there were near a dozen Gauls lunging and thrashing at them with spears, swords and axes. Pullo's discarded shield was preventing them from getting to his undefended side — a hindrance due to its size and bulk — but any moment the pair would be swarmed over by angry, vengeful Gauls.
Screaming Latin obscenities, Vorenus launched himself at the Gauls, using his shield as a battering ram and knocking back and aside half a dozen men in a single leap, his sword flashing out again and again, biting into flesh, slicing arms and once severing a man's jugular. The spray of arterial blood washed over the entire scene, blinding half the combatants and making it difficult for anyone involved to see what was happening. A man appeared above Vorenus and lunged down with a sword, only to be struck by a well-thrown pilum from the camp's walls. He disappeared backwards with a shriek.
Angrily, Vorenus shook his head, blinking away the crimson veil, only to lose his footing to an animal warren's entrance. With a curse, he fell forwards, his own shield slipping his grasp and disappearing off to the side. A roar of victory went up among the front ranks of the Gauls and some of the lesser warriors found themselves pushed roughly aside to allow the greater nobles to reach the fallen Roman — not the two leaders they had pinned with their pila, though.
Vorenus rolled to avoid a spear thrust which jammed into the turf where his chest had been but a moment before, lashing out with his gladius and feeling it catch flesh in the sudden press above and around him. He felt something wet and rubbery slap across his cheek and a fresh splash of crimson washed his vision. A thrust blade ripped a few links from his mail shirt and bounced along his ribs. He hardly noticed, so intent was he on avoiding the rest of the iron and bronze points lunging down at him.
Again, a Gaul was plucked from his feet by a carefully placed pilum from the camp walls and Vorenus almost laughed as the sudden gap in the surrounding enemies trying to kill him filled with the frenzied form of Pullo, who had finally extricated himself from his predicament.
"We've got to go!" he yelled at Vorenus as he slammed his blade into the neck of the Gaul to his left, stamping his nail-soled boot down on the foot of another man.
"So soon?" he managed to shout back with a manic laugh.
Pullo's reply went unheard as Vorenus concentrated on keeping two lunging spearmen off him, knocking the weapons this way and that with his sword so that they could not manage a straight thrust at him. As one spearhead slammed into the turf, pushed aside from its intended target, Pullo was suddenly next to him, lifting him with his free arm while his sword continually slashed at the enemy.
Vorenus felt his own blade come out of his grasp, his fingers numbed by the scrape of a spear head along the knuckles. Involuntarily, he yelped and then, irritated by the unmanly noise, shouted something to the effect that the spear-wielder's mother had known her brother in most unfortunate ways.
Something grazed his leg as he stumbled away, drawing blood and leaving a hot score-mark across the back of his thigh.
Suddenly they were in the open again, making their way onto the causeway and back to the gate in the camp ramparts, which was already creeping open for them.
Celtic warriors chased them, leaving the safety of their lines and trying to get close enough for a good spear throw, only to find themselves in range of the scorpions in the towers that protected the gate. The nearest two Gauls were impaled in a heartbeat and knocked back, encouraging the rest to stay at a safe distance.
Stray arrows and sling stones began to track them and as they ran they zigged and zagged across the causeway, presenting the most difficult target they could. Pullo was spun sideways as a bullet clanged off his helmet making a sound like a bell and Vorenus had to grab his arm as they ran to keep him heading the right way. An arrow thudded into his own shoulder, the mail shirt taking most of the power out of it, but the blow still slamming him forward. He could feel the wound beneath the links burning and throbbing.
And then they were inside the gate and the timber leaves were closing behind them. Vorenus fell to his knees, gripping his painful shoulder and coughing up bile. Next to him, Pullo wrenched off his helmet, noting with dazed interest the dent in it and feeling for the matching dent in his skull from which a trickle of blood ran. He shook his head to try and clear the fug of the bell-ring that had robbed his senses.
By the time the pair had pulled themselves upright and stood recovering with deep breaths, Felix had descended the ramparts and was wandering towards them, shaking his head in baffled wonder.
"You two are absolutely out of your minds. You know that?"
"Just a bit of exercise, Prefect."
Felix laughed.
"They just did a headcount on the wall. Comes out differently each time, but we can be fairly sure you killed or badly wounded at least eleven of the bastards, including three nobles. Not a bad rate for two men. I was expecting more of a major assault, but you might just have given the messengers the distraction they needed."
"If Fortuna hasn't completely abandoned us."
* * * * *
The evening brought a calming of the winds, which was a great relief to the men on the ramparts. Following the crazed activity of the two centurions, the Gauls had surged against the fort walls with renewed anger, though their outrage at what had happened served Rome well, driving them into frenzied, chaotic attack, rather than the carefully planned siege that their leaders were obviously favouring.
Still, the day had brought too many deaths for comfort. Felix stood watching the numerous campfires of the Nervii and pondering on the butcher's bill he'd just been delivered. The legion was now down to less than three thousand men. Still a strong force by headcount, but little more than half that which had manned these walls a week ago, and that included a large number of wounded.
Each day now would go further the way of the enemy as the strength of the defenders waned ever more.
The reason for the small camp fires that had been lit on the Roman side of the Gaulish ramparts had confounded he and the other officers for a short while, but it had not taken him long to recognise that there were eight of them and piece together their meaning.
It had caused outrage and despair in roughly equal quantities along the wall when the eight Roman couriers had been raised on their crosses above the flames, each man beaten and cut but alive enough to appreciate the agony of a slow death by burning from beneath.
He refused, despite his rising gorge, to take his eyes from the sickening, horrifying sight. He had condemned them to this — he could hardly turn his face from them now.
"Just give the order, sir and we'll put them out of their misery" mumbled an optio nearby.
Felix felt the muscles in his jaw twitch. "No. That's what the bastards want: a waste of ammunition. We have less than two hundred pila left and only thirty or so shots with the scorpions. We can't even afford to waste eight. Those few missiles might buy us an extra hour."
The optio saluted and turned, stalking off along the rampart unhappily. Felix could hardly blame the man. No one should have to see this.
The question was: where was Vertico's man? Was he off in the woods somewhere, or was he brandishing a burning stick from lighting one of those fires?
The future looked bleak.
* * * * *
Ariogaisos clutched his side as he staggered through the woods, worrying about the quantity of blood that smeared his hand as it came away.
He had made it through the army surrounding the Eleventh Legion's camp through the judicious use of bravado and speed. He'd had the ill luck to have come up from the hidden ditch among a crowd of the Pleumoxii, who immediately distrusted the sudden arrival of one of the Nervii among them. Only by bluffing had he made his way through them, discovering on the way that the Nervii were based on the far side of the army in their entirety, scuppering any plans he'd had to rely on passing as one of them.
Instead he had kept his head down and his voice low and muffled so as to hide his heritage and try to pass as one of any of the numerous smaller tribes involved in this siege.
He had known that the Romans did not trust him, despite having had to rely upon him. They had little reason to trust, really. Surrounded by his tribe, why would they give their confidence to a man who could so easily turn on them? His master Vertico — the chief of a sizeable oppidum to the northeast — had given his oath to support Caesar in much the same way as the other Nervian leaders. But unlike they, who had formed an ignoble alliance through the druids to eject Rome from their territory, Vertico considered his own word to be of far more binding importance than his allegiance to that secret sect, however sacred they may be. How could a man devote himself to the Gods and their druidical followers and not hold dear the great Celtic principle of a given oath being binding?
Ariogaisos had almost fallen among the last tribal group through which he had passed when they demanded to search him, suspicious at his passage away from the centre of events, and he had refused. A knife had been drawn and had cut him below the bottom rib, but he had managed to stagger away and into the woods.
He had a rough set of directions to the next winter quarters, given by the Roman commanders, and he knew enough of the territory to reach the boundaries of Nervii land safely. Whether the Tenth legion — the next closest camp — would believe this stray wounded Celt was another matter. The message he carried should be proof enough.
"Halt!"
Surprised by the sudden Latin command so far from the legion and deep in the woods, Ariogaisos pulled himself upright and looked around. A figure stepped out of the undergrowth. He was Roman, dressed in their standard tunic, and yet unarmoured, still pulling up the breeches the Romans had adopted from the Gauls as he gestured with his blade. The reason for his presence became clear as the Gaul looked past him and saw a dozen or so other Romans gathered in a small clearing, encamped for the night. The one closing on him narrowed his eyes.
"You speak Latin?"
The Celt nodded and then, realising how stupid that was, cleared his throat. "I am Ariogaisos, shield man of Vertico of the Nervii, bound on a mission for the legate of the Eleventh legion."
"Really?" the Roman replied disbelievingly. "What's his name, then?"
Ariogaisos blinked. He'd never thought to ask that. As far as he was concerned, he got his orders from Vertico, who served the legate.
"I… I don't know" the Celt said quietly.
"Get in that clearing."
As Ariogaisos staggered forwards, clutching his bleeding side, the legionary urged him on with the point of the blade.
"Well well" commented a man in Centurion's kit as they entered the clearing. "What have you found, Nasica?"
The legionary padded over to a companion and retrieved something wrapped tightly in red cloth, hugging it to his chest as though it were his precious child, while two other legionaries pointed their swords at him.
"Only Nasica could go for a piss in the woods in the middle of nowhere and find a damn spy!"
"I am no spy" Ariogaisos replied. "I serve under Vertico, the Nervian chief in the Eleventh legion."
As the other soldiers' voices rose in disparagement, the centurion waved them to silence.
"I remember Vertico. Where are you bound?"
Feeling a sense of relief flood through him, Ariogaisos reached into his shirt, drawing urgent gestures with the two swords, but producing a small folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax and the Bull stamp of the Eleventh legion.
"I am bound for the Tenth legion to bring tidings of war."
"There's a coincidence" mused the centurion. "The Eleventh are in trouble?"
"Yes, centurion."
"The Nervii?"
"Yes, centurion. And others."
The officer nodded. "Ambiorix and his Eburones. They've already obliterated the Fourteenth, and now they've moved onto Cicero's lot. Give me that."
As the Celt passed over the parchment, the centurion cracked the wax seal and perused the contents. After a moment, he straightened and gestured for the two guards to sheathe their swords.
"Are you badly wounded?"
"It will heal" Ariogaisos replied.
"Are you feeling brave?"
The Gaul nodded, a dread feeling that he knew what was coming sinking into his gut.
"Can you get back into the camp?"
Yes — that was it. He nodded again.
"Then I'm going to give you a reply. You take it back to Cicero and Felix and tell them to hold. Help is on the way." As he scrabbled for his stylus and the wax tablet he kept in his pack, he gestured to the legionary coddling the wrapped object. "Nasica?" Put that thing down for a moment and get yourself back in armour. No more napping, anyone. We ride day and night now until we find the Tenth."
Chapter Seventeen
DECEMBRIS
Fronto stepped onto the jetty and beheld his hometown with apprehension for the first time ever. When he came home it was invariably after a summer of campaigning and for rest and recovery over the winter months, down here where the climate was comfortable and more conducive to relaxation. Puteoli and its surrounding area were renowned for their dry, hot summers and their mild, if often damp, winters.
It was the place he automatically associated with family and friends — even though none of the latter would be in the area at this time — with wine and frivolity, with walks and swimming, hunting and days out to Pompeii and Neapolis.
In short: his happy place.
And now he was bringing all the troubles born of his past few years back home with him. Would he ruin Puteoli for the family the way the previous two winters had ruined Rome for them?
The sailing had been less rough than he'd expected this time of year and they had made good time, though he had still spent the requisite half the time at the railing adding his stomach contents to the treasures of the deep. It would be a few hours before he felt able to eat or drink, but he was becoming so inured to the sea-sickness these days that he was able to seal away and ignore the after effects to some extent — enough to concentrate on matters at hand, anyway.
To some extent the solitude he'd had at the ship's rail had been a cathartic time, if he was honest with himself. The news of Crispus' demise had come as a tremendous shock to him and the group's troubles had immediately expanded to fill all their waking thoughts, leaving him no time to ponder or grieve until aboard the ship and watching the gulls and the grey water in silence.
The thought that Crispus had been sent to Elysium in Gaul cut him all the more with the deep personal fear that, had he not severed his ties with Caesar and returned to Rome, he could have been there to stop it. It felt as though he had abandoned his friend and thus indirectly caused his death.
By the time the ship had reached Puteoli, he had finally come to terms with the loss, though a funeral feast and libations were overdue, and he would move the world itself if he had to in order to arrange a night with Priscus and Varus and the others.
A clatter as a bag was mishandled onto the dock drew his thoughts back.
As the others disembarked and the ship's crew unloaded the horses and their bags, Fronto looked along the jetty at the port — one of the busiest and most impressive in the Roman world — and then back to the city beyond, all narrow maze-like alleys and twisting vertiginous streets. Rome was a place of wide avenues and well-ordered streets — well, in the wealthier areas anyway — but almost none of Puteoli was designed like that. The city dated back to the days of the Greek settlers, before Rome's influence had reached this far south, and it suffered the design flaws of that artistic and disorganised people.
Despite the presence of the low-lying port and the sea-front part of the civic area behind, much of the city rose on high cliffs and spurs and from the jetty created something of the impression of looking up into the seats of a giant theatre arcing across before them.
"Where do we go?" Balbus asked, his voice catching. The man had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the journey, more with nerves born of the news he carried for his daughter than the pain he himself felt.
Fronto nodded to himself. He'd forgotten that Balbus had never been here before.
"We'll have to make our way up through the city. From here, just past that bloody great arcaded building and to the right of the baths' cistern — that great square thing past the white roof — you can just see the curved top of the amphitheatre. We head up to there and turn right just past it. The road from there leads out towards Neapolis and we stop about a three quarters of a mile along the cliffs. If we'd come in from the southern direction, I could have shown you the villa. You can see it from the sea."
He realised he was starting to enthuse, despite everything, and Balbus was in no mood to hear of Fronto's love for his home. Instead, he turned to the others. Elijah held Balbina by the hand. The girl's eyes were unfocussed, unseeing — almost glazed, but the Jewish physician never let her spend a moment alone or uncared for, acting more as a brother or uncle than a medicus, comforting her and encouraging her to interact. It wasn't working, but something needed to be done.
Galronus, Masgava and Palmatus were in conversation about fighting methods, as seemed their norm. They made a strange trio — a Roman born, a Belgic chieftain and a dark-skinned Numidian — but they seemed to have settled into an easy friendship, and one that was equally extended to Fronto and Balbus.
"When we get to the villa — assuming all's normal — it might do us some good to look around it first with an eye to its defence" Fronto announced. "We can deal with returning to the ladies afterwards. I would be happier if we at least scout the place out first and decide how we're going to approach the coming storm."
