Turning, he smiled at Drusus, who was shuffling to achieve a more comfortable position under his cloak. Arduenna could go screw herself. No native witch was going to worry him. He took a step forward and something smacked into his forehead, obscuring his vision, scratching… fighting… blinding.
Aurelius felt a moment of true, earth-shaking panic as his vision was occluded by something black and flapping, pincer points digging into his scalp. He shrieked and threw his arms up in panic, simultaneously soiling his woollen undergarment.
The bat that had become tangled in his overlong locks managed to free itself and flit away into the night. Aurelius realised that he was shaking like a leaf and a steady, warm, unpleasant smell was rising from his nethers. Despite the explosion of raucous laughter that issued from Drusus where he sat on guard, Aurelius felt neither embarrassment nor anger.
He was too busy feeling bone-chilling fear.
Removing his underwear and flinging it into the water, aware of the trickle of blood running down from his scalp, he dipped into the river and began to wash his nethers with the ice cold water, all the while throwing up at the sky apologies to great Arduenna and her spirits. After all, if she could control bats, what was she truly capable of?
Chapter Ten
Samarobriva — Caesar’s camp
The days had passed for Priscus in an increasingly irritating haze. Already, mere days after Fronto and his party had left, the tribal leaders had begun to arrive at Samarobriva for the assembly, and the general had been largely closeted away on his own, leaving the ever-enthusiastic Marcus Antonius at something of a loss.
Antonius seemed to be one of those people who find it almost unbearable to pass the time on their own, and any moment in which he found himself at a loose end, he descended on one of the other officers to socialise. Fronto had been his companion of choice for much of his brief time in Gaul, but now — with Fronto gone — Priscus seemed to have been selected to fill the void.
Every night for the past four nights, Antonius had turned up at his door with an amphora of wine — often with some unintelligible — if shapely — local girl draped on his arm. Priscus had almost forgotten what it felt like to go to sleep sober and to spend a morning without a ‘seven horn’ hangover. In his more malicious moments, he wondered if this was what it had felt like to be Fronto.
Rubbing his pink eyes and wondering what fresh hell the day would provide, Priscus stepped out from his tent and spotted, with a sinking heart, Antonius striding towards him across the grass.
‘Ah shit.’
‘Gnaeus?’
‘Antonius. You seem agitated.’
And he did. Antonius was almost bouncing as he walked, and his face had creased into a frown of concern, lacking its usual mischievous humour.
‘The Aeduan chieftain has turned up, in a small party of warriors, alongside the Sequani and Lingones.’
‘That must be nearly the full complement, then,’ Priscus said in surprise. ‘No assembly’s ever been gathered so quickly. ‘Who are we missing?’
‘The Carnutes and the Senones, apparently,’ Antonius replied with a strange tone that Priscus couldn’t quite identify.
He frowned. ‘But the Carnutes and the Senones are two of the more local tribes — certainly a lot more local than the Sequani and the Aedui. They should have been among the first to arrive.’
Again: that look, as Antonius nodded.
‘The two wolves who won’t eat with the pack’.
‘What?’
‘Hercules speaks to me plainly on occasion. Suffice it to say, the Carnutes and the Senones won’t be attending. Nor the Treveri, Nervii, Eburones or Menapii, of course, but Caesar didn’t bother sending messengers there, given the situation.’
‘What has the general to say on the matter?’
‘I’m about to go see him. I thought you might like to accompany me.’
‘Like is a strong word,’ Priscus grumbled. ‘Come on, then.’
The two officers strode across the damp, dewy grass. While spring was officially upon the land, the weather Gods had apparently failed to notice and were gripping tight to winter, unwilling to see it leave. Ingenuus’ Praetorian cavalrymen stood at attention by the tent, but did not deign to question the approach of two such senior officers. By the time Priscus and Antonius had reached the command tent, one of the guards had already ducked inside and announced them, returning to his place and holding aside the tent flap for them to enter.
‘Morning, Gaius,’ Antonius said conversationally as he stepped inside. Priscus had long-since become accustomed to the casual, familial relationship between the two men and simply saluted and waited to one side as Caesar acknowledged them with an idle wave of the hand without looking up from his work.
‘I think we have a problem with the assembly.’ Antonius scratched his chin.
The general paused in his scratching of marks onto his tablet and looked up. ‘Oh?’
‘The Senones and the Carnutes have not sent deputations.’
Caesar’s brow creased for a moment, but he shook his head. ‘Perhaps they are delayed. The experience of repeated councils at this time of year has allowed the tribes to send their ambassadors with unusual alacrity, yet we cannot expect every tribe to be so prompt. My couriers were fast, and the chieftains will have been awaiting the summons, but still, it is inclement and early. We have to allow a little leeway.’
Antonius shook his head. ‘They’re not coming, Caesar… trust me on that. You hold to your consultations of Venus and you know that I do so with Hercules. The great club-bearer himself tells me they are not coming.’
Caesar’s brow continued to lower. ‘What would you have me do, Antonius?’
Priscus cleared his throat with a quick glance at Antonius. ‘It might be prudent to bide our time and be certain, General. For all the wisdom of the Gods, I would prefer to trust the word of our scouts and the evidence of my own eyes. When your couriers return we will know for certain whether those tribes are refusing the summons.’
He held his breath. A delay in the council would buy Fronto a few extra days, and could make a great deal of difference to him. There was a leaden pause in the room. Antonius had agreed that they should do what they could to grant Fronto the space to work, but Priscus was coming to realise that the new senior officer was as unpredictable as he was cunning. He had back-flipped on more than one decision since Priscus had got to know him.
‘No.’ Caesar straightened and stretched. ‘The Carnutes have been troublesome before, which is why we garrisoned a legion on them last year. And the Senones are local enough that they should have been here by now if they had any intention of attending. Your demi-God is correct, Antonius. These two tribes have refused my summons. So the question now is what to do about it?’
‘I think the answer to that is fairly clear,’ Antonius replied with a firm, hard edge to his voice.
‘Dispatch the legions?’ Caesar enquired.
‘Send them against these two tribes. Do unto them what you did to the Nervii.’
Priscus narrowed his eyes as he glanced at Antonius. Was the man attempting to buy Fronto more time or simply moving to slake his thirst for battle? Such an action would certainly delay the council, but Fronto would hardly approve of the method. To utterly wipe out two tribes just to buy Fronto time was hardly appropriate.
The general frowned. ‘I do not like the idea of moving the entire army further west, while my main objective lies east.’
Priscus cleared his throat again. ‘And with respect, General, we do not have the details yet. It is somewhat premature to order the extermination of tribes without being fully aware of why we are doing so.’