The men nodded, variously grinning and grimacing. They were, as the general had requested, the sort of man who, if they weren’t in the army, would be robbing and murdering for profit. He watched them with interest as they filed past into the evening air. On the bright side, they really looked like thieves and vagabonds, and they smelled like refugees who’d been travelling for days without a change of clothes. Possibly they could pull this off after all.
Once they were all outside, the centurion nodded with apparent satisfaction, concealing his shaky nerves.
“Right. Let’s go. Remember everything we agreed.”
As they strode across the grass of the camp, Cantorix noted the watching faces of the many legionaries who stood beside their tents. Many held a look of vague, unintentional contempt. Others, though, nodded respectfully, fully aware of what these ragged men were about to attempt.
The rear gate of the camp opened as they approached, without the need for orders, and the legionaries on guard saluted as they passed. Cantorix peered into the gloom as he broke into a jog, the light from the torches and braziers in the camp fading behind him.
He was impressed, as they reached the bottom of the slope and made for the eaves of the nearby woodland, at the singular lack of noise the men around him made. They moved like cats in the night, hardly a twig cracking when they passed among the boles of the trees. After a few minutes the silence became oppressive and the centurion cleared his throat, speaking in his native Gallic tongue.
“Alright. I think we’ve probably come far enough south. Let’s cut west and make our way round. Feel free to talk, but only in low voices. We’re supposed to be refugees and bandits, after all, not thieves. But remember to watch what you’re saying.”
He took a deep breath. “And don’t try to put on any kind of accent. It’ll just end up sounding stupid and obvious. We’ll just have to hope that they don’t know the Veneti accent that well. We’re more than a hundred miles from their lands, so that wouldn’t surprise me.”
One of the men grinned at him.
“Are you doin’ all the talkin’, or are we all goin’ to chatter?”
Cantorix nodded back at the man.
“You all need to talk; we spoke about that before. We’re not supposed to be soldiers, so act just like you would expect fleeing Veneti warriors to. Just leave the initial explanation of matters to me. Feel free to chip in with bits and pieces, but don’t get too creative.”
The man grinned.
“Oh I know. Art of any scam’s keepin’ it simple as possible. So’s not to trip yerself up.”
The centurion smiled. “Precisely. So everyone should talk.”
“’cept Villu, ‘course.”
Cantorix glared at the man’s poor taste in jokes, and glanced across at the afore-mentioned man, who was grinning wide and displaying the messy hole where his tongue should be, result of some unknown incident many years ago.
“Come on.”
Listening to the general conversation as they moved speedily through the woodland, the centurion began finally to relax a little. He had to admit that, to his own untrained ear at least, they sounded every bit the band of Gallic brigands. But then, truth be told, when you took away the mail and the tunic, that was very much what they were.
No surprise really that they were treated the way they were by the other legions. He resolved to try, once this was over, to get these men to mingle more with the other legions. Closing the cultural rift would require effort on both sides, after all.
He was still pondering on what could be done for the Fourteenth when they reached the edge of the woodland and gazed out across the open grass to the walls of Crociatonum, the fort they had so recently left rising from the crest of the impressive hill off to the right.
“Alright. Let’s run. Try to look relieved.”
Breaking into a fast pace as they left the trees, the fifteen men sped across the open land, keeping low and moving like a pack of wolves on the hunt. They were perhaps four hundred yards from the walls when the shout went up from within.
Warily, mindful of the possibility of missiles being hurled at them before any opportunity was given to explain themselves, the unit slowed and raised their arms, indicating the fact that their hands were empty of weapons. They continued to walk like that toward the town’s solid gate until, perhaps ten yards out and without the need for an order, the unit came to a stop.
Cantorix, listening carefully, could just make out the noise of urgent discussion behind the gate. Screwing his eyes shut momentarily, he took a deep breath.
“For Belenus’ sake, let us in. There’s thousands of Romans a cat’s fart away!”
He couldn’t stop himself flinching, but managed to stay steady and not drop to the ground in case of missile fire. Straightening, he threw an angry glare in the direction of the optio who was stifling a small laugh.
“Who are you?” called a voice from an unseen figure above the gate.
“I’m Cantorix of the Veneti!”
There was another muffled exchange and finally a figure appeared above the gate, tall and powerful, wearing bronze helm and a chain mail shirt, a heavy blade in his hand.
“You bring us a message?”
Good; a chance. “A message? Shit, yes, I bring you a message. Let us in and get ready for the sky to fall.”
“Explain yourself, stranger.”
“The Roman, Caesar is about a day behind us with enough men to trample a forest.”
Cantorix was pleased to note a sudden, yet more urgent murmur behind the gate.
Off to his right, one of the men bellowed “Bloody Romans everywhere. How come you haven’t flattened that lot on the hill?”
The leader dipped down behind the parapet for a moment, and then reappeared from a discussion with his compatriots.
“The Veneti have fallen to Caesar?”
“I’m not bloody proud of it, but yes” Cantorix snapped. “Now will you let us in? There was a lot of activity in that fort when we came past, and I don’t want to be standing in the open playing with myself when they decide to come and stand on my throat.”
He had to force himself not to smile as the urgent voices muttered again, a little louder and with a note of panic. The leader tilted his head to one side; a sign of worry, perhaps?
“Activity? What activity?” he asked.
“A lot of men moving around late at night and clanking stuff. Sounds a lot like the army of bastards we’ve had nipping our heels all the way. You wouldn’t believe how fast those bastards can move when they want to!”
“And you said Caesar is a day away?”
“Yes, now let us in!”
“Where are the rest of the survivors?”
“How the hell should I know? Some left by ship and headed for the Osismii. Others fled into the woods to hide. It was chaos. The Romans enslaved most of the survivors. A few of us got out ahead of them to bring warning to the other tribes. We’ve been running for four days.”
The armoured leader stood silent for a moment.
“Think very carefully, stranger… when you saw the activity at the Roman camp, was it concentrated at the rear gate?”
Cantorix smiled to himself. The man was hooked now. Time to haul him in.
“I think so. What would you say, Idocus?”
“Yeah… off t’the other side, defnitly!”
There was another pregnant pause as Cantorix held his breath and finally, after an age of nerves had passed, the gates of Crociatonum crept slowly open.
Chapter 14
(Iunius: Sabinus’ camp, near Crociatonum.)
“I’d say that Cantorix and his men pulled it off, then?”
Sabinus glanced at legate Galba of the Twelfth beside him and then turned his gaze back on the approaching mass and smiled.