The horses took a few steps further, carefully, between the marshes.
‘Wait!’ cried a desperate, panicked voice from the battlements.
Antonius turned an insufferably smug smile on his companion.
* * * * *
‘A welcoming party?’ Antonius muttered to Priscus, as the army tramped at a steady pace through the fine, soak-you-to-the-bone drizzle. The prefect widened the viewing hole in the hood of his cloak in which he had almost cocooned himself for the last day of the journey. It had been less than a week in total since their three legions had left the very gate through which their ‘welcoming party’ now emerged: the west gate of the massive camp of Samarobriva.
‘Not a good sign.’ Priscus shifted his sore rump as the bony nag beneath him bounced up and down.
Over the past three days, returning from the borders of Carnute lands, the weather had turned inclement again, this time warmer, but considerably wetter than the late winter had been. Complaints and grumbles had become the norm among the three legions — as well as their officers. All everyone wanted to do was get into that camp, drop their armour to the ground, peel off the soaked wool and bathe, change into something dry and then go to sleep, inside and warm.
The small knot of mounted officers converging on their column from the gate suggested that such a dream was a way off as yet.
‘It’s Rufio,’ Antonius frowned. ‘Him and a few lessers. What in the name of Juno’s bony arse is he doing coming out to meet us?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Priscus muttered and turned to the rider behind him, who sagged under the weight of his cornu. ‘Sound the halt.’
The man extricated himself from the enclosing circle of the horn and tipped it upside down to empty the collected rainwater before blowing a somewhat soggy call through it. The column came to a halt as the order was repeated back through the Tenth, the Ninth and the Seventh. The legates of the three legions, riding alongside to stay out of the press and the mud, kicked their horses forward to meet the commanders at the fore.
Waiting, rained-upon and tired, the returning victors — such as they were, having fought a grand total of two men — waited for the approaching riders. Rufio reined in his steed as they met on the low ground before the camp.
‘Miserable day you’ve brought back with you.’
‘Cut to the point, Rufio,’ grunted Priscus. ‘I’m cold.’
‘We’ve been waiting for your return. Caesar’s convened the assembly, but he’s also announced our next move to the staff. As soon as matters are settled with the natives, we’re moving against the Menapii in force.’
‘Surely he plans to let us settle in and get dry first?’ Priscus snapped.
Rufio chuckled. ‘Some of you. The Tenth are to return to quarters and stand down until after the assembly, but the Seventh and the Ninth have been redirected. Trebonius and Plancus are to take their men and make immediately for Labienus’ camp, along with the entire army’s baggage train. Labienus is being given overall command of three legions in order to crush the Treveri, while we squeeze the tribes from the north, starting with the Menapii.’
Priscus sagged slightly. ‘What about Fronto? He’s right in the middle.’
‘The general seems to think that Fronto will find his task easier if we can drive the enemy to him, working from the edges.’
The recently-arrived staff officer peered at the damp legions before him, noting the sour, less than happy looks on the faces of the two legates who would not tonight find the comfort of a warm room and a hot dinner. ‘Sorry, gentlemen. Caesar’s already had the support wagons and the baggage train readied for you at the east gate, so that there’s no delay. You’ll be slowed badly by the baggage, so you’d best get moving immediately. Your specific orders are with the prefect in charge of the wagons.’
‘What news of the assembly?’ Antonius asked pointedly.
‘Caesar’s drawing new oaths and new levies of cavalry from all the states that can still afford to do so. What happened with the recalcitrant tribes you went after?’
Antonius thumbed in the direction of the column behind him.
‘The deputation from the Senones was delayed by stupidity. They’re with us at the back, as are a number of hostages from their tribe. The Carnutes apparently panicked when they heard we were approaching, and their deputation found us, almost falling over themselves fawning and simpering, wanting to attend.’
Priscus gave a hard smile.
‘I suspect that had something to do with what you told the Senones. Word of things like that spreads fast through the tribes. The Carnutes’ King probably shat a brick when he heard what you told his neighbours.’
Antonius chuckled as Rufio raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Suffice it to say,’ added Priscus, ‘I think Antonius frightened the tribes into submission. They took the oaths again in a hurry and followed us like sheep. The west is settled, for now.’
‘Good. As soon as this council’s over, the Fourteenth and the Fifteenth will take on garrison duties here and the other five legions march on the Menapii.’
Priscus glanced at Antonius.
‘Great. More swamps.’
Antonius shrugged, droplets of water showering from his shoulders.
‘I’d rather be in a swamp with five legions than in the Eburones’ sacred forest with just a dozen men,’ the officer replied pointedly.
Chapter Eleven
Divonanto in the lands of the Condrusi
Fronto ground his teeth as he hiked up the last few feet of the near-vertical slope, his breath coming in gasps and puffs.
‘Would they… really be… offended if… we didn’t bother?’
Samognatos shook his head. ‘They know we… are coming. They… always know.’
‘But… we know where… to look next… anyway.’
The Condrusi scout flashed him a look that illustrated his feelings on the notion of bypassing the sacred nemeton of Divonanto. Fronto had been in two minds all morning. As far as his direct mission was concerned, he was unlikely to get any better directions to Ambiorix’s current location than the council had given him last night. And whatever the scout said, Fronto had his suspicions as to how helpful the druids were likely to be. He’d as soon stand knee deep in the sea, wearing copper armour and calling Jupiter a spiteful prick as trust a druid, but Samognatos seemed convinced they had to visit, and in these lands, Fronto was to some extent reliant upon the man’s continued help and goodwill.
The pair reached the top of the interminable and evil slope and Fronto reached down, gripping his trembling knees and heaving in breaths, watching the singulares labouring up the mountainside behind them. The ‘easiest’ route to the nemeton without circling round a few miles involved heading to the side of town away from the river, nestled up against the slope, and coming at the cliff outcropping from an oblique angle. Easiest: maybe. Easy: no. The slope was still one of the steepest he had ever climbed, and certainly one of the highest. His legs may never stop shaking, and he knew just how badly his calves and shins were going to hurt tomorrow.
‘I’m not leaving anyone outside… you know.’
Samognatos simply widened that infernal grin. ‘Won’t you want to leave someone to guard the weapons?’
Fronto blinked. ‘If you think for one… moment I’m going in there unarmed…’
‘That is the only option, I’m afraid, sir.’
‘Screw that.’
‘Respectfully, Romans do not approve of bearing arms in their temples. Indeed, the whole of Rome is weapon free I understand?’
‘That’s because Rome isn’t home to a bunch of savage…’ He stopped short, not for fear of insulting Samognatos’ druids, but rather because he was about to claim that Rome was safer and more civilised, but a quick mental run through his past few visits silenced that notion.
‘I give you my word that you will be unharmed.’
Fronto sighed. ‘I’m not impugning you, my friend, but I could give you my word that up is down. Would that make it so?’