Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (7 page)

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 squeezed 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."

"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.