Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (36 page)

"We can take your grain now we are here" Trebonius pointed out.

"You could if we kept our grain here. But it is not here. You are in trouble, Caesar. You have a hungry - even starving - army a long way from safety and your time is running out."

The general narrowed his eyes. "You believe this enough to deter us?"

"Of course not. We all know of the great Caesar. A man of iron will, who achieves the impossible. No. I intend to sweeten the deal for you. You are in trouble, as I say, but I offer you everything you could wish."

"Everything?"

"
Almost
everything" the chieftain replied with a wry smile. "I will supply you with enough grain to keep your men alive and well fed until their return across the water. I will allow you…"

"
Allow
?"

"…to keep all the prisoners you have taken and I will give you a further hundred hostages and two hundred slaves, all of the Trinovante people. I will throw in even a little treasure you can claim as spoils of war. My men will show you to a place where a ferry operates that will allow you to cut down your return journey by at least six days. Does it sound sweet enough yet?"

"There is one thing I seek more than anything, chief of the Catuvellauni: I seek your solemn oath that you will not interfere in matters in Gaul."

Cassivellaunus gave a laugh, filled with genuine humour.

"Nothing would please me more, general of Rome. I have absolutely no interest in your conquest and no exhortation by the silent white brotherhood will press me to sending my valuable kinfolk across the water to help a doomed people. Those people who treatied with your enemies in recent years are now the servants of the Catuvellauni and will cause you no further inconvenience."

The group fell silent, the only noise the distant sounds of the legions taking control of Wheat Valley. It seemed odd to Priscus, sitting on horseback beneath the silvery glow of the moon and listening to a hairy barbarian dictating terms to the most powerful man in the world. And yet, he had to admit that the man offered a very tempting deal.

"I accept your terms, chieftain of the Catuvellauni" Caesar said suddenly and with a bright smile. "In fact, I hope to seal them and arrange everything and be on our way by the time the sun sets tomorrow."

As the Briton inclined his head gracefully, Caesar added with a sly smile "I think it would be wise for us to put an ocean between us. I do not think the world is yet ready for a game played between two such men."

Again, Cassivellaunus bowed, a curious smile playing across his lips.

Priscus heaved a sigh of relief. He had only been in Britannia for a few short weeks and already he was itching to be away from the place. Fronto had been right about the island in his gloomy appraisal.

Back to Gaul and to the endless rebellions…

* * * * *

Priscus scratched his head as his eyes bobbed around, following the motion of the vessels in the low water. Repaired on the beaches, the ships had only been run out into the water this morning - the morning of departure - to confirm their seaworthiness. To Priscus is seemed a little close to the event to check for leaks, but with the weather ready to turn at any time and twice experiencing the near-destruction of the fleet at the hands of Neptune, none of the officers was willing to risk leaving the ships floating at anchor for more than a few hours. Even then, the crews had stayed aboard in case they were needed.

"There are a lot less of them."

Trebonius shook his head. "Not really. A few perhaps. One benefit of taking down the fort is the extra timber for repairs. This past day another two ships were salvaged from the 'abandoned' pile. Given our losses there'll be plenty of room for the crossing."

Priscus sighed and leaned on the post at the landward end of the temporary - rather flimsy looking to him - jetty that would be used for embarkation.

"Was this whole trip worth it?"

"In what way?" Trebonius turned with a frown.

"We've a guarantee that the most powerful tribes of Britannia won't involve themselves in Gallic affairs. From what I saw of that bastard Cassivellaunus, I doubt he would have involved himself anyway. I think he's trying to build his own empire here and sending his best warriors over the sea to help strangers would hardly aid that cause. Caesar think's it's a success, and so will the senate and the people of Rome, and the gods know most of the army think it's a success because they're getting out alive and they have slaves and a little booty. But the thing that irritates me is that I suspect the person it's been most successful for is Cassivellaunus. He's tightened his grip on his own land and essentially agreed a treaty of non-interference with Caesar. I have the distinct feeling we played into his hands from the start."

"Doesn't matter if he's happy or not, so long as we have what we want. Now we can return to Gaul, get the legions in place for the winter and start preparing for your 'Gallic rising' that's in the offing."

"I hope so. And I hope that we don't get back to find Gaul already in flames. You weren't here last year, but while the bulk of the army was across in Britannia, we had the shitty end of the sponge stick when the Morini decided they didn't want us any more. That was just one tribe and they're not even one of the more powerful ones, and the trouble they caused hardly bears thinking about. If people like the Aedui and the Treveri and the Arverni are in collusion we've got some real trouble on our hands."

"First thing first" Trebonius sighed, slapping the wooden post next to him. "Cross the sea again and reunite the legions. Then we can plan further. From what I've seen of Caesar, he probably has the next three moves in his game lined up."

"Oh he's always ahead of the game. Problem is: sometimes he gets too far ahead for his own good. Fronto used to be able to haul him in and curb his more excessive ideas. I don't think anyone here these days can do that, so we just have to hope he knows what he's doing."

He turned and scanned the camp with his eyes. Almost everything that labelled it a Roman military installation was now gone: the structures, the walls, the tents. Even most of the ditches had been backfilled. The men of the legions were gathered in their former camp sites, packing the last of their gear ready to fall in.

It was hard to see this as the site of a battle. Varus had taken command at the first sign of trouble and had done a good job keeping the attacking Cantiaci at bay. Of course, their attack had been a wary, careful one, more intent on causing damage and disruption than actually killing Romans, and yet still the casualty list had passed well into treble figures, with two centuries' worth of men dead. The charred site of their pyre was visible from here.

Priscus sighed.

It would be good to leave Britannia. And hopefully never come back.

Chapter Eleven

OCTOBRIS

Fronto staggered back across the peristyle garden and fell against the door to his father's 'special room', the strength in his legs buckling, hand shaking uncontrollably from the onslaught. Angrily, he pulled himself up next to the long-worn paint that warned he and his sister to keep out, and turned, reaching up to wipe away the blood flowing from his lip.

"You can't teach me like this! You cannot expect me to achieve the same skills as you. You're a decade and a half younger than me for a start;
and
you've been trained as a gladiator. I've been trained as a soldier. It's a whole different thing."

Masgava bent forward and collected Fronto's fallen blade.

"This is pretty, but in the hands of the wrong man it is just an ornament."

"Oh piss off. Yes, it's pretty. But it's a good, solid, military blade nonetheless. And I do know how to use it, and use it well. I've stuck one of those in so many Celts these past four years that I'm starting to see anyone with a moustache as a threat."

"Then why this?" Masgava indicated the fact that Fronto was battered, bruised and slightly soiled and leaning against the door for support by pointing the fine blade at him.

"Because you've got me wielding the bloody thing in my left hand. I can barely wipe my arse convincingly with that hand."

"Then you should learn."

"Masgava, if I'm ever in the position where someone has taken my right arm off above the elbow, I won't really care about much other than bleeding out."

"Short sighted view. You need to be able to use both hands, individually or together."

Fronto sighed. He had to admit that Masgava's methods seemed to be having the right effect. He'd not been this fit since the last time he was in Hispania. His waistline was narrow, his arms muscular, his torso was beginning to mirror the bronze muscle cuirass he'd worn for years with lots of small muscular bulges instead of one large one below the diaphragm. Due to the Numidian's insistence on doing everything outdoors he was actually achieving a healthy tan instead of the pasty paleness that had plagued him for decades and which Priscus had told him made him look more Celtic than the Gauls.

He was fit. He was strong. He was fast.

He was also still a dozen miles behind his teacher. No matter how heavy a weight he lifted, Masgava could lift him while holding it. No matter how fast he ran, Masgava was always waiting for him at the end. It was infuriating. And then there was the fighting. It was the only thing that Fronto felt he had ever mastered in his life, and yet he still felt like a boy waving a stick when facing the Numidian. The worst thing was that Masgava seemed to be taking a perverse pleasure in his student's failure and discomfort, while being paid for the privilege. Velius, the most infamous trainer the Tenth had ever had, was like a damn pussycat next to the big black-skinned killer.

"I just cannot get used to the left hand. I've had to do it a few times in desperation - in the heat of battle - but that's all taken care of by instinct and necessity and any success with it has been far more by luck than by judgement. In the legions the sword goes in the right hand and sits on the right hip. Not for me of course - officers don't carry shields, so our sword goes on the left hip, but it still doesn't matter whether the Gods made you a rightie or a leftie, the sword goes in the right."

Masgava's eyes narrowed. "So you never used a shield?"

"Of course I did. When the situation both required and offered it."

"So you have been forced to adjust your attack mode before."

"Ye-es" Fronto replied hesitantly, not liking where this was going.

"So adjust again."

"Easier said than done."

"You've changed sword types easily enough. Even swung an axe with a certain sense that you felt natural with it. It cannot be much more difficult to train an off-hand with a familiar weapon than to train a regular hand with a new one?"

"Really? You think that?"

Masgava shrugged. "I was trained with a knife in both hands before I grew hair upon my body. I can stitch a wound in my right arm with my left or vice versa. I have equal strength and speed in both, and only through training. By birth, I believe I was inclined to the left."

"I won't tell you what my mother used to say about that. My great uncle Tullus was a leftie and he - well he enjoyed the company of pre-togate boys if you get my drift."

"It matters not. The simple fact is that if I could unlearn and re-learn, then so can you."

"Your people were pretty tough by the sound of it. And anyway, you say you were trained with a knife in each hand. Well, a sword in both hands is a different matter entirely. It's not reliant upon my left alone, so compensation will be easier."

The big Numidian nodded slowly in acceptance of the fact.

"Then we shall take two blades as our next step."

Fronto stood, still breathing heavily from their most recent bout, and finally turned. Peering briefly at the faded words on the door, he crouched and scrabbled around in the flower bed, retrieving a key from some hidden location, which he inserted into the lock and turned, pushing open the door with a creak.

"Come on."

The former gladiator, a fine sheen of exercise sweat covering his ebony skin, crossed the garden with an interested expression and followed Fronto into the gloomy interior. As their eyes adjusted, Masgava looked about in surprise. The room was only small, but well stocked. At the wall opposite the door four wooden torsos rested on stands, two clad in very high quality mail shirts, the other two in cuirasses of muscle-beaten bronze. A shelf above them on the wall held seven helmets of differing styles, some of which had gone out of fashion a century ago, and yet all were in perfect condition, polished and clean. One side wall held shelves that contained a variety of knives, swords and even two bows. But as Masgava took in the whole room with professional interest, it was to the fourth wall that Fronto crossed.

The bare plaster held only one item, hanging on a hook: a military-style gladius, plain and business-like. Fronto unhooked it and brought it down, sliding the blade - nicked and well used but also well-kept and in perfect condition - from the sheath, trying not to look at the inscription 'GN VERGINIO' embossed on the fine leather. Turning, he weighed it in his right hand, spinning it and twisting it.

It had been a while since he had held a normal military gladius, and yet it felt instantly natural; like an extension of his arm. The fine blade he had taken from a murderous tribune was theoretically no different, but its ignoble and grisly history made it feel more murderous than military and it would take a lot to right its wrongs. Besides, he'd had no call to wield a blade over the winter in the city.

He suddenly became aware that Masgava was watching him intently.

"Problem?"

"You have an armoury?"

"I do. Well, my
father
did. He felt it inappropriate to keep his military kit in the house, where the children could get to it, so he kept everything in this locked room off the garden - his stuff and that of various other family members. I never understood why he didn't just get rid of it all when he moved on from soldiering but this winter, now I've done the same, I think I understand why he liked to keep it around. It feels comfortable knowing it's there; like you've not properly left."