After all, he’d nearly had one when Aurelius shrieked next to his ear, and the superstitious lunatic was heading that way himself. It wasn’t unknown for a man to die of natural causes, after all. Even a healthy, robust one like Drusus.
And yet he was failing to fool himself. He knew Drusus had been killed somehow.
Brannogenos was still out there somewhere. And so was Valgus. And, of course, Ambiorix and all his followers, and probably a bunch of Arverni. Hell, it could be anyone! Or no one.
But with Aurelius shouting about Arduenna and running to his mates, Fronto was fairly sure that shortly the entire unit would be blaming the huntress Goddess for this.
With a sigh, he lowered the body back, spoke a few words over him and withdrew a coin from his purse, pushing it under the tongue and closing the mouth again. Turning, he made a rough estimate of where the camp site would be, based on the commotion he could hear in the distance. Now he needed to get back before Aurelius did too much damage to the unit’s morale.
Holding the burning branch aloft and slightly to one side so as not to ruin his night vision too much, Fronto began to pick his way back through the woodland as fast as he dared.
His heart almost exploded from his chest as he rounded a tree and the dancing orange glow of his torch was suddenly reflected back to him in two wide, black, glassy orbs. He skittered to a halt and stared as the huge, grey boar peered at him intensely. The damn thing was enormous!
Fronto tried to remember any tale he’d been told about boars and how you dealt with them, but his lifetime’s experience with the creatures was entirely limited to what sauce you added to them, and what wine went best. He did know that they were extremely dangerous, especially when startled, and bloody hard to stop without a ballista and a nice wall to hide behind. Alone against one, in the dark, in the forest, lost and — he cursed as his hand touched his hip — unarmed, he was likely in some serious kind of trouble.
The beast huffed and a cloud of steam boiled from its snout. Fronto felt a chill run through him at the sight and the sound.
‘Erm… shoo!’
The boar remained motionless, huffing again.
Fronto, panic beginning to blind him to sense, waved his arms at it in a dismissing motion.
‘Shoo! Go on. Piss off!’
Again, the boar remained.
At a pinch, he could wield the torch both offensively and defensively, but he had the sneaking suspicion that such activity would simply annoy the creature and that would likely be a worse situation than having it stare haughtily at him.
‘Go on. Go… go find a sow. Go on.’ Panic bubbled ever higher. ‘Erm… Honey Glaze!’ he bellowed. ‘Liquamen and apricot sauce!’ Idiotic, of course, but recipes were all that flocked to his mind.
‘Oh just fuck off!’ he snapped, and hurled the lead curse tablet at it. The disc bounced off the creature’s shoulder and still it didn’t move.
‘What, then?’
Slowly, with a strangely human grunt, the boar turned and, flashing him one last, oddly-disappointed glance, ambled off into the darkness.
Fronto exhaled with an explosion of air as the thing disappeared among the trees.
Somehow he couldn’t help but feel that he owed his continued ability to draw breath more to a native Goddess than to his divine Fortuna and Nemesis, for all their power and personal connections.
‘Wait ‘til I tell Ullio about this!’
* * * * *
Atuatuca had changed somewhat since their previous visit. Even from across the valley, Fronto had been able to see the damage that had been wreaked upon the oppidum. Never had it more closely resembled its namesake — the Aduatuca of that eponymous tribe which had been removed entire from the face of history four years ago. The defences were low and crumbled and darkened by ash.
The journey up the sloping path had been carried out in silence. Even the most ardent Roman could not help but be affected by the air of hopeless loss and sadness emanating from Ullio, though his expression remained harsh and grim. Yet another example of Caesar’s wrath being visited upon the Eburones. Much more of this and they would see the last of the hunter, Fronto was sure. When Fronto had returned to the camp following the discovery of Drusus’ body, and breathlessly revealed what had happened with the boar, even Aurelius’ ramblings about the ‘demon Goddess’ had been shushed by the rest while they listened. Ullio had simply nodded once, sharing a knowing look with Samognatos, and then affirmed his intention to stay with them for now. Though he’d not once explained his reasoning, Fronto was sure he’d seen the incident with the boar as clear sanction from Arduenna.
And so he was still with them, though he spent increasing time with the Condrusi scout away from the Romans — especially Aurelius, who jumped at the slightest thing and continually took the Goddess’ name in vain, despite Fronto’s orders to the contrary.
Now, the two natives — hunter and scout — crested the rise and moved towards the fallen walls of the Eburone stronghold. Behind them, the singulares and their commander moved towards the defences, eyeing the destruction with shallow breaths. Whichever of the Roman columns had come through here had been thorough. The walls were less than a man high in most places, crumbled and blackened and tumbled inwards or outwards. Through the wide gaps they could see the charred skeletons of houses, ebony timbers pointing accusingly at the Gods from piles of ash and rubble. Even the dust of the streets was black.
The sounds of a thriving settlement were entirely absent. No animal noises, no children. No trade or manufacture. Nothing. Just the noises of the carrion birds feeding and fighting over the choicest morsels and the sound of a shocked few who had survived.
Those handful of Eburones were at work outside the gates. It was a manufacturing process of the most grisly sort. A few soot-stained men were gathering up the dead and placing them on pyres to render down to ash — pyres which were being constructed by another group from the remaining timbers of the town. Blackened patches with piles of ash around the extramural grass marked the sites of burned down pyres, and a number were in various stages of burning and collapse or embers gradually cooling. Womenfolk were gathering up the cold ash from the finished pyres and scooping it into wine jars and earthenware pots. Others were cutting out shallow pits and carefully laying the jars on an easterly alignment, placing a few charred possessions alongside and then filling in the holes. The sheer number of fresh earth-and-turf mounds spoke volumes as to the death-count of the battle.
‘Caesar takes his vows seriously,’ muttered Palmatus as they moved towards the silent, grisly workers.
‘This wasn’t Caesar. This was Labienus showing mercy.’
‘Mercy?’ Masgava said in a tone of disbelief.
‘No crucifixions. Quick deaths. Only Labienus would afford the Eburones that mercy.’
They fell silent as they moved among the crow-black funeral workers.
‘You,’ Fronto said, not unkindly, to one of the men who had paused and straightened to rub his sore back. The man looked at them and Fronto saw no fear and no anger in his eyes. No life, in truth. The man replied in his own language, and the Roman glanced over at his two natives scouts. Paying him no heed, Ullio and Samognatos between them quizzed the weary, hopeless man, their voices heavy with sympathy. Fronto listened in hopefully and caught the name Ambiorix used three separate times by the local. He waited, trying to exude patience and sympathy, though he was twitching to know what they were discussing.
After a long exchange, Ullio stayed with the man and spoke soothingly to him, while Samognatos turned and strode over to Fronto, gesturing for them to move a respectful distance away from the burials. Fronto realised the presence of Romans among their victims was the worst insult they could have perpetrated, albeit entirely unintentionally.