Chapter Seven
Molacos of the Cadurci stalked through the burning wreckage of the inn. By morning nothing would remain of this place but a few sad mouldering beams and some charred stones. It was a little more high profile than their previous strikes, but he had reasoned that by now word of the executions of Roman officers would have filtered back to the authorities and there was no longer any real need to sneak around. Of course, he would still be careful, as there were only twelve of them, and though they were each and every one a killer, forged in the crucible of war with Rome and moulded into the vengeance of the peoples by the will of one man, there were still limits to their ability. Taking on a large group of Romans would be stupid and suicidal, and at this stage he could not risk the plan for the simple love of killing Romans.
He could hear the screaming now. Unearthly wailing like a soul beyond the limits of human endurance. Which, of course, was the plain truth of the matter.
Belenos was sitting in the midst of the conflagration, his feet up on a table as he coddled a large mug of beer to which he had helped himself. As Molacos approached, the golden-haired hunter, as handsome as a child’s lullaby on a summer evening, removed his expressionless mask and dropped it on the table in order to take a deep swig of the drink. He flashed a smile of perfect, straight white teeth at his leader, and Molacos grunted a greeting in return.
‘Pull up a bench and have a drink.’
‘Do you not fear falling beams or tongues of fire?’
Belenos grinned. ‘Am I not the shining God who pulls the sun? What have I to fear from burning beams?’
‘Don’t get clever. And I will not drink that swill.’
‘This,’ Belenos said after another sup, ‘is true Arveni beer. A good brew.’
‘This inn was given over to the Roman army, and the owner simply served and serviced Rome. Whatever it made and sold is tainted, and I will have nothing from it.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘Is Bellisama almost done, d’you think? The other Romans are all burning and their goods taken or destroyed. It is time to move on.’
The handsome hunter shrugged with a quirky smile. You know my sister, Molacos. She will not leave a job half done.’
‘The prefect knows nothing. That was clear even before I left the room. Now she dallies for no reason.’
‘Oh, she has reason, Molacos. You know her. She will not rest her blades until she has flensed each and every Roman this side of the Alpes. And very likely she will then look beyond the mountains. Our quarry is long gone. We should devote ourselves purely to the killing of Romans. It’s what we’re good at.’
Another blood-curdling shriek ripped through the silence and died slowly, like its owner. Molacos eyed the creaking, charring roof beams above him suspiciously and held up his arm to shield his face from some of the scorching heat of the bar which was burning furiously, aided by strong spirits.
‘We have to go before this place collapses.’
‘It will see out this beer. I deserve a rest.’
Molacos was about to retort angrily when the door to the rear room swung open to reveal the inferno beyond and Bellisama emerged, soot-streaked and sweating, weapons cleaned and sheathed, her mask in one hand and a necklace of fingers hanging from her other.
‘Dear brother, I missed your last naming day. How poor of me.’ With a cackle, she threw the finger necklace at Belenos, who caught it and turned it round and over, examining it. ‘You could have left his rings on.’
‘I put out his eyes with them and filled the sockets. You can go and get them if you like?’
Belenos chuckled again and slugged down the beer. ‘Very well. Where next, glorious leader?’
‘We head back towards Gergovia,’ Molacos sighed. ‘There are a few other potential places on the way and I still live in hope that one interrogation will bear true fruit.’
‘And if not, at least we get to kill Romans.’
Molacos shook his head and marvelled at the twins. They were like children, but it was hard not to love them.
Chapter Eight
VARUS glanced around at the men of the Ninth hurrying between the farmstead’s huts, gathering armfuls of dry hay and other animal fodder. Most of the legionaries were spending more time than they realistically should inside the huts, and throwing their loads into the cart with wild abandon rather than stacking it carefully before rushing for another building. He could hardly blame them. The rain was near torrential, the ground churned into a thick quagmire of mud and animal dung through which the men slopped and squelched, all the while getting colder and wetter, watching their armour and weapons getting soaked and knowing that even after the foraging was done with and they were safe back in camp, the work had only just begun, with hours of cleaning and polishing ahead to prevent rust. Still, he ought to intervene. It was, after all, the fodder for the cavalry they were gathering.
Two days had passed since the fort’s completion, and the army sat behind its defences, seething in the rain and watching the Bellovaci and their allies across the swamp sullenly brooding. There would still be two days before Trebonius arrived with the other legions, at the best estimate, and while the army was managing to subsist on the meagre supplies it had brought with it, augmented by forage brought in by raiding parties, more supplies were always needed, especially with such a large relief force marching to join them. The foragers of the four legions had been out every hour the gods sent gathering firewood, barrels of water, supplies of grain, vegetables and animals whenever possible and now, finally, animal fodder. For throughout the continual foraging, the auxiliary cavalry had been out protecting the parties and using up what little supplies they had in the process.
Every farm and village for more than fifteen miles in any direction had been stripped of its stores, and the legions had been forced to become ever more daring, skirting the swamps that surrounded the enemy and moving many miles beyond them into uncertain territory to find the scarce foodstuffs needed to supply an army in the grip of winter.
Today, luckily, the army had discovered a healthy cache of food in the form of a large farmstead hidden in a depression in the woods and kept secret by geography. As with almost everywhere in this benighted land the farmers had gone, joining the enemy civilians secure in the deep forest, and had taken with them whatever they could carry, along with all their animal stocks. Yet even then, what had had to be left behind was worth more than gold to the hungry and poorly-supplied Roman force: a cart that would have to be pulled by cavalry mounts, sheds full of stored hay, grain, veg and more.
Varus watched the men throw another armful of hay into the cart, strands and chaff flying loose even in the rain. He really ought to shout at them. They were wasting forage and space, and would pay for their sloppiness later. But shouting at them was the job of their centurions, who were in one of the huts, and he just didn’t have the energy. For while the forage parties had been drawn in rotas from the four legions and their cavalry escort had been drawn in a similar fashion from the various native levy tribes, Varus and his small cadre of regular cavalry and officers had spent most of their waking hours out on patrol with the groups. It was not that the native officers couldn’t be trusted, but they had a tendency to run a little wild and to overextend without a Roman officer to remind them of their orders. Regular cavalry officers played the important role of a mediary between the native commanders and the legionary centurions they were protecting.
Today was the turn of the Remi. There was a large group of Lingone cavalry as well, somewhere off to the north with men from the Eighth, but here at this perfect little find the steadfast and long-serving Remi protected the Ninth.