Sons of Taranis (45 page)

Continuing to wag his finger, he glared at them. ‘The mistress of the house she may be, but you work for
me
. When I set you a task, you do that task, even if Jupiter himself pokes his face through the clouds and tells you otherwise. Do you understand me?’

The two men, chastened, nodded sullenly and Fronto let his angry gaze linger for a while before gesturing to the door. ‘Open it, Catháin.’

As the northerner did so, Fronto stepped into the doorway, repeating four names under his breath so as not to forget them. An arrow thrummed out of the darkness and clattered into the wall close by, but Fronto ignored it, standing proud in the doorway and holding up one of the expressionless cult masks, letting the light catch it from many angles as he turned it this way and that.

‘Dis!’ he bellowed into the night, and then cast the mask out onto the gravel drive where it landed with a crunch. He took a second and raised it in the same fashion.

‘Sucellos!’

Crash
.

‘Rudianos!’

Crash
.

‘Toutatis!’

Crash
.

‘And before you flee to your bolt-hole, just for good measure: Maponos!’

With a last crunch, the mask he had taken from the young man in the inn hit the gravel. No further arrows were forthcoming, and Fronto took a step out into the garden, his hands on his hips like an indignant landowner bellowing at interlopers.

‘Five gone. All for some pointless petty revenge. Listen to me, Molacos of the Cadurci: Take your last six men and go home. Raise ugly children, drink putrid beer and just be damned grateful that you lived through the war. Because – and mark my words – I will
not
let you free your king or kill any more officers. Your mission is over.’

Turning his back, and casting up only the tiniest prayer that he not get struck in the back with an arrow, Fronto stepped back inside and let his employee close the door.

‘That’ll have shaken the buggers,’ he said flatly. ‘Their numbers almost halved in one day and with no appreciable gain.’

‘And the fact that you called Molacos by his name, too,’ added Cavarinos.

‘Exactly. Is there any chance that they will actually stop, in the face of this setback?’

The Arvernian shook his head. ‘No. They’ll not stop. In fact, the problem with men like Molacos is that failure just fires their blood. Now he’ll be more determined than ever.’

‘Then I suppose we had best go back down to the inn and see if we can finish this?’

‘I think that’s the sensible decision,’ Cavarinos agreed grimly.

‘Catháin, you are in charge of the place. I’ll leave half the men with you to make sure the villa’s secure, while we go to deal with the rest of these Sons of Whores.’

* * * * *

Fronto nodded to Masgava.

‘That’s the one – the Chimaera’s End.’

The inn, with its gaudily painted sign of an overly-muscular Bellerophon riding a winged horse that looked a little too fat to fly, was still open for business, despite the fact that it was too late for all but the exhausted drunks and the night workers. That, of course, was why it had become one of Fronto’s occasional haunts – it was a quick stroll from his warehouse and catered for those carters and labourers at the various warehouses who wanted a nightcap or twelve when their work ended. How those who stayed there managed to sleep was beyond him, though these were not rowdy customers, but quiet ones.

He was grateful. To have to wake the innkeeper would be to risk alerting the Sons of Taranis to their approach, and the only other way would be to climb the outer wall to the room’s high window, which would be near impossible with any level of safety and stealth.

Fronto and his small force of men approached the open doorway, from which issued a warm glow and the muted murmur of conversation. As they reached the building, Masgava clapped his hand on Fronto’s shoulder and gently manoeuvred him into the middle of the group rather than the front.

Arcadios came up to join the big Numidian, Biorix and Cavarinos staying close to Fronto protectively. Aurelius they had left with the other group up at the villa, well aware of the prevalence of bats in the streets of Massilia at night and Aurelius’ inability to handle those flying rodents without shrieking.

They stepped into the bar and the murmur stopped immediately – ten armed men will have that effect on a quiet inn.

Each man brandished his weapon of choice, many of them old service gladii, others the fairly common Greek
kopis
sword. None of the inn’s occupants made to move against these armed arrivals, though. Most of them were wary and tired, a few too inebriated to stand, let alone fight. The innkeeper suddenly burst forth from the end of the bar, waving his hands and shouting ‘no, no, no, no, no…’

Masgava’s free hand snapped out and grabbed the chubby man by the chin, his large, powerful fingers and thumb sinking into the wobbly flesh of the man’s jowls as he forced his jaw shut. Fronto watched, impressed, as the innkeeper fell silent, intimidated beyond words by Masgava’s expression alone. It was only when he was lowered back to the floor that Fronto realised the big Numidian had actually lifted him off the floor by his chin. As the man alighted again and let out a nervous fart, Masgava put a shushing finger to his lips, tapped his temple with a finger and walked on towards the stairs. As Fronto passed the innkeeper, the man was shaking like a leaf. Not one pair of eyes in the room was looking directly at any of them.

It paid to have good men with you, Fronto smiled.

The party took the stairs one at a time, slowly and keeping to the side again to prevent creaks. The corridor above was dark – no oil lamps lit at this time of night. The ten of them moved stealthily down the corridor until they reached the door at the end. Again, Masgava motioned for silence and put his ear to the door. He shook his head, indicating silence within, and then crouched to the keyhole. Rising, he shrugged his uncertainty. He looked back at Fronto and indicated his shoulder questioningly. In reply, Fronto mimed opening the door by the handle.

Quietly the Numidian grasped the ring and turned. Next to him, Arcadios hefted his gladius and prepared. Stealth now abandoned in favour of surprise, Masgava threw the door back and he and Arcadios swept in like a river in flood, Biorix and Cavarinos behind him, Fronto and the rest following on.

The room was pitch black, the window shuttered tight, and Fronto panicked as he entered, suddenly well aware that the enemy were at a serious advantage in pitch black in a room they had occupied for days. His fears were realised as he heard first a strangled grunt from Masgava ahead in the dark, and a cry of pain from Arcadios. His own sword slashed out, blind, into the darkness at the side, where an enemy might lurk, but certainly no ally.

Nothing. His eyes were adjusting slightly, but not enough to pick out anything but the vaguest of shapes. His sword lanced, slashed and swiped in the darkness and he felt a triumphant surge as it connected with something, only to realise it was a bed post.

Someone threw open the shutters and the room burst into clarity in the low light from the street outside and from the moon, which had made a brief but most welcome appearance in a gap in the clouds.

The room was empty.

Well, not
entirely
empty. The thin cord that had been stretched across at neck height might well have crushed the windpipe of a running man, but Masgava had caught it first and, at his height, it had hit him below the collar bones. Arcadios was leaning on a bed, swearing and, as the room came into view, yelled ‘
tribuli
!’

Fronto looked down. The floor was scattered sparsely with pointed iron caltrops, one of which Arcadios was busy removing from his foot, accompanied by some choice curses and the patter of blood droplets.

‘Some leaving gift,’ Biorix grunted, kicking one of the tribuli carefully aside. Apart from the painful traps, the room was empty. No Sons of Taranis. No kit bags, weapons, cloaks or masks.

Fronto sheathed his sword. ‘They must have come back here after the villa, so they can’t be far ahead of us.’

‘Unless they cleared out first and took everything with them to the villa?’ Arcadios mused.

Cavarinos shook his head. ‘They cannot have believed they would fail a second time. They have just left.’

‘No use asking the barman,’ Fronto sighed. ‘They wouldn’t have told him anything, even if he’d asked, which he wouldn’t. But we know they’re somewhere in the city and now there are only seven of them. Will they try again?’

Cavarinos pursed his lips. ‘If they are true to their mission, no. They couldn’t risk any more losses if they hope to free the king. You can never be truly sure, though, with a man like Molacos. Fanatics are bad enough normally, but when you thwart them like you have, it can push them over the edge of the madness cliff. If Molacos still has a grain of sense, he had his ship ready to sail before they came for you. I would place money on them already being at sea.’

Fronto straightened and crossed to the window, stepping around the caltrops. He stood for a moment, leaning on the window and looking out across the city, and came to a decision. Turning, determination filling his expression, he folded his arms.

‘It’s time to take the fight to them, then. I did this with Hierocles and his Greek thugs for months, trying to stay peaceful and on the right side of law. And at every opportunity the slimy bastard ruined me and hurt my people and my business. And in the end I had to show my teeth to stop him. Now these rebel killers are doing the same. They keep us penned in the villa, defensive and panicked, waiting for the next attack. It’s time to show our teeth again.’

‘But how will we find them?’ murmured Biorix.

‘We know where they are going: to the carcer in Rome. That is where we’ll find them.’

‘And your family?’ Cavarinos prompted. ‘You can’t leave them here for fear of reprisals, and it would be too dangerous to take them with you.’

Fronto nodded. ‘Catháin has been badgering me to let him go to Campania and secure better sources of wine. He and a few of the men can accompany Balbus, Lucilia and the children to Puteoli. They’ll be safe at my mother’s villa there, especially with Andala with them. And Galronus is in Puteoli, too, so he’ll look after them. That means that once we pass Ostia we can concentrate on the remaining seven rebels.’

Masgava sheathed his sword. ‘It’s a good plan.’ He glanced at Cavarinos. ‘Will you be leaving us here?’

Fronto felt a strange lurch inside. He hadn’t thought of that. Would Cavarinos willingly walk into the Roman eagle’s own nest? Would he really want to see the jail that held his king; his
kinsman
in fact. Would he be able to face that and not feel the need to free the man himself? Cavarinos may
seem
one of them, but when faced with his own people languishing in the carcer…?

The Arvernian’s face betrayed his indecision, but resolution came down fast and complete. ‘I will see this through to the end. The Sons of Taranis must be stopped.’

‘Can we stop them sailing?’ Arcadios asked quietly. ‘I know we’re talking as though they’ve already left, but we can’t be sure.’

‘We know the enemy have a friendly ship,’ Biorix replied, ‘but it’s probably already left, and even if it hasn’t, with no name and the number of Gallic traders in port, tracking them will be like trying to find a particular turd in the latrines.’

‘You are full of delightful images,’ snorted Fronto. ‘But you’re right. They may well already have sailed. It’s not common to sail at night, but the port’s open and there’s nothing to stop them. Best we get ahead to Rome and see if we can find them there, like I said. Brutus’ orders do not cater for passengers in his fleet, but I will secure a place for all of us and he will not argue with me. The family and most of the staff and guard will come too. And at Ostia we’ll transfer the family onto a ship bound for Puteoli before we continue upriver.’

Cavarinos picked up one of the pointed tribuli from the floor and turned it round and round in his fingers. ‘Roman. Imagine that. Despite their aversion to Rome, they’re not above using your own weapons.’ He sighed and cast the caltrop aside. ‘To Rome, then.’

‘To Rome.’

MARCUS Antonius leaned close to Caesar, trying not to catch the eye of Calenus on the general’s far side. ‘You think Gaius is safe among the Bellovaci?’

The general turned his aquiline features on his friend, confidante, distant cousin and senior officer. ‘You think he is not?’

‘Gaius is a good man, I know. But he’s little experience of command yet. A legion and a half to keep the Belgae in place. Have we done enough to pacify them?’

A knowing smile played on the general’s lips. ‘This is anxiety over our strategy, then? Not simply fraternal concern?’

‘I would hardly… it’s not my place…’

‘Ha.’ Caesar chuckled. ‘Worry not, Marcus. Your little brother is quite safe. He has some of my best tribunes and centurions with him, and the Belgae are beaten for good. They could barely raise a cheer, let alone an army. Besides, your mother would tear me to pieces if I placed Gaius in real danger.’

Antonius laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve never seen a quieter people than the Bellovaci now.’

A roar brought their attention back to the open square before them. Cenabum was not what it had once been. The Carnutes had damaged the important river port in their original attack that had ignited the flames of that great revolt which had died at Alesia. In response, the legions had all-but razed it. Now a new village was rising amid the ashes of the old port. One day there would be aqueducts here, and paved roads and a forum, temples to the Capitoline triad. Now there were huts among the ruins. The smell of charred wood lingered even after so many months – years now, in fact. The place smelled like a pyre, and it would take a generation for that to fade. But they were not in Cenabum for the facilities, nor for the air. They were in Cenabum to make a statement.

Two legionaries emerged from one side of the square, amongst the throng. Each held a long, leather cord, and a moment later the man at the other end appeared. The Gaul was one of the Carnutes – the tribe that had founded this very settlement, had colonized the land around it, had fostered rebellion here, murdered Romans here. He was a noble and, according to rumour, a druid – the very druid who had raised up Vercingetorix to be king among the Gauls. He did not look quite so noble now.

‘Why Fabius didn’t do away with the man while he was here, I cannot fathom,’ murmured Calenus.

‘Fabius had enough on his platter,’ Antonius replied quietly, ‘as we now know. In fact, I cannot understand why we are here ourselves, Caesar, and not marching south to help the legions at Uxellodunon?’

The general leaned back, folding his arms. ‘Sometimes, gentlemen, something symbolic and powerful needs to be done to drive home the nails of suppression. Caninius, Fabius and Varus are more than capable of containing an oppidum until we arrive, and this is important. The central tribes are quiet. The Belgae are now settled. Caninius and the others are dealing with the south, but this region is a hotbed of trouble and has been since first we came. The Carnutes are every bit as guilty of protracted murder and rebellion as the Arverni.’

The defiant Gaul had to scurry forward to avoid falling and being dragged. He, Guturvatus by name, had taken two weeks to track down. And that following a week of investigation as to his identity. The druid-chieftain was stripped to the waist, his grey wool braccae soaked with sweat, his feet bare and bloodied from the painful journey across the ruined city.

‘But if he is, as they say, the man behind all the risings, would it not be better to have the Carnutes here in their thousands to witness it?’

Caesar turned to Calenus and gestured to the far side of the square where perhaps a dozen Gallic nobles stood with sour faces and slumped shoulders. ‘They are the leaders of what is left of the Carnutes – Fabius was thorough in the short time he was here – and what transpires this morning will filter through the entire region in a matter of days. You have spent plenty of time in Rome, Calenus, surely you are familiar with the astonishing speed of gossip?’

Calenus smiled, though he still looked faintly unhappy. Caesar could understand the man’s reluctance, of course. He was not a man used to the brutality of war, despite having led legions in Gaul now. And what was about to happen was… well, Caesar had foregone breaking his fast, despite a persistent rumbling in the belly.

‘Besides, half of this is for the benefit of our men, not theirs. This is one of the architects of the risings that have kept them marching and camping in Gallic winters these past three years. He is responsible for countless legionaries being heaped into the burial pits or onto pyres. Once in a while it does the legions good to see the filth that has so ruined them face justice. The value of watching their revenge being carried out is incalculable in terms of morale. Guturvatus’ death will buy more goodwill with the men than a thousand loot and slave payouts.’

The Carnute leader, who had been betrayed by his own frightened tribe as the Romans hunted him, was now being dragged towards two thick posts driven deep into the ground some eight feet apart. The officers couldn’t quite see the man’s face, but they could picture the wild, terrified eyes. The prisoner started to fight the inexorable momentum towards the posts, struggling with the cords, trying to free himself. Despite his ravaged feet, he dug in his heels and almost succeeded in pulling down one of the legionaries dragging him. The centurion who even now stood to one side of the posts had chosen his detail well, though. The two legionaries at the cords were oxen in human form – massive, with necks like oak trunks and muscles like burial mounds. With little difficulty they regained their control and yanked hard enough for the man to fall face first into the dirt. When he struggled upright again, coughing and spitting out dust, his nose was flat and bloodied and his face was torn in several places.

‘Bet you wish that was the traitor Commius there,’ muttered Antonius with a vicious smile. ‘I wonder where
he
is.’

‘Somewhere among the Germans, I suspect. There will be time to find him later, when I am back in Rome if not before. My reach is long, even from the city. Commius is too important and loves power too much. He cannot hide forever.’

A nod from Antonius. ‘Commius on the run. Vercingetorix in the carcer. Ambiorix and Indutiomarus dead. Now Guturvatus dragged here in chains. Only Lucterius in the south to go, I think?’

Caesar nodded. ‘The heads of the hydra become fewer with every strike. With Fortuna’s aid, Lucterius will be the last and the beast will lie still.’

Still struggling to the last, the prisoner was being tied in place, the leather cords now fastened tight to the wooden posts at just an acute enough angle that his shoulders would already be feeling the pain. The centurion looked up at Caesar, awaiting the command, and the general gave a slight nod of the head. Stepping around in front of the prisoner but slightly to one side so as not to obscure the officers’ view, the centurion, whose voice had been honed on a hundred parade grounds and battlefields to carry clear even in the most hectic din, cleared his throat.

‘Guturvatus, son of Lemisunius, you have been accused and convicted of conspiring to bring war against Rome in defiance of the Pax Romana to which your tribe have pledged. Your crimes have infected your neighbouring tribes, spreading discontent and further endangering the stability of the region. Your rebellions have both directly and indirectly cost the lives of many thousands of Romans and many more Gauls who, were it not for your influence, would have remained allied with Rome and at peace. Thus, given the gravity of your crimes, the Proconsul of Gaul has sentenced you to death by the scourge.

An auxiliary of the Remi tribe in gleaming mail and a white cloak stood close by, repeating the centurion’s pronouncements in a language the prisoner and the watching Carnutes would be able to understand. As his more guttural words ended, a discordant echo of the centurion, Guturvatus began to struggle again. His futile attempts achieved little more than to make the leather straps bite deep into his wrists, and he began to curse and shout and spit. Two legionaries in the crowd burst out laughing at some private joke and the optio just along the line roared as he clouted them in the shins with his staff.

Having fallen silent once more, the centurion looked again at Caesar, who repeated his nod. ‘Proceed.’

At the officer’s command, a muscular soldier with arms like tree boles and a chest around which Antonius reckoned his arms would barely reach stepped forward. In his hand he held the coiled scourge and as he walked towards the prisoner and the other Romans backed away to leave the two men alone in the square, he shook out the weapon. Three long tails of leather hung from the heavy handle, weighted down with spiked wheels of carved bone that had been attached at set lengths along each strand.

Standing silent and taking three slow breaths, preparing for strenuous activity, the legionary pulled back his arm and swung.

From even thirty paces away the officers heard the tearing sound and the unpleasant, unmistakeable sound of bone on bone. Guturvatus screamed. Calenus wiped his forehead and lowered his face.

‘This damned heat.’

Caesar turned a fierce gaze on him. ‘Straighten up, man. You’re an officer.’

He could only imagine what Calenus would be doing if he had the view most of the legionaries had, where the actual damage was happening. All the officers could see was the intense agony on the man’s face. Again, the soldier swung the scourge and this time a spray of blood to the side was joined by small scraps of flesh.

The third strike connected while Guturvatus was still screaming from the second, and consequently the Gaul bit off the end of his own tongue in the process, his mouth filling with blood. Caesar made an irritated motion to the centurion, who waved at the executioner. ‘Slow down.’

The legionary nodded and began to count to twelve between strokes.

The ground was becoming sodden with red in wide sprays from each blow, and Antonius glanced across at Calenus, who had gone pale, his face taking on a very waxy sheen. This was why you didn’t employ lawyers to command legions, no matter their position on the cursus honorum or the influence of their family. You ended up with men like this. Calenus needed toughening up if he was going to stay in service for a while. Mind, when Caesar returned to Rome shortly, the man would probably end up as a provincial governor.

Still…

Antonius smiled wickedly. ‘His back must be all ribs and organs by now, Caesar. Time for a change?’

The general gave him a questioning look, and Antonius nodded at Calenus, who was repeating ‘So hot… so damned hot…’ his eyes revolving to look anywhere but at the victim. Caesar gave a curt nod and waved to the legionary with the scourge. ‘Front, now.’

Calenus stared at Caesar, who cleared his throat quietly and leaned close. ‘You will watch like a stoic officer, Quintus Fufius Calenus, and if you should even think about vomiting in front of the legions, so help me I will have you strapped there in the victim’s place. Have some backbone, man.’

The executioner moved around the figure, taking up a new position at the front. Guturvatus was barely conscious now, every scream feeble and half drowned by the blood that filled his mouth. Another twenty lashes would be the end of him. At a nod from the centurion, he began again.

By the third blow, the man’s chest was open, bone visible and blood everywhere. On the fourth, one of the spiked wheels caught on a rib and the legionary had to scurry over and extricate it which, from the screaming, seemingly hurt even more than the scourging. At the eighth blow, the screams had stopped and even whimpering seemed too much effort. The man was almost dead, his breathing shallow and ragged.

‘Enough,’ commanded Caesar. ‘Take the head.’

Another legionary stepped out from the lines, wielding one of the long, heavy blades favoured by the Gaulish tribes. Unsheathing it, he nodded to the scourge man, who folded his nightmare coils and stepped out of the square. The swordsman took his place, pulling back the huge blade and pausing for just a moment.

His swing was perfectly positioned. The blade slammed into the prisoner’s neck from behind. Though it failed to sever, it crunched through the spine, killing him with the first strike. The second blow finished the job. The swordsman bent and picked up the head, approaching Caesar and holding it high. The two officers glanced sidelong at Calenus, who still looked extremely unwell, though he’d held himself together throughout the proceedings.

‘Have it spiked and raised above Cenabum’s main gate.’ The general focused on the distressed Carnute leaders opposite. ‘There will be no more revolts. No more risings or troubles. The Carnutes are now once more bound by the Pax Romana. If there is even the slightest unrest here again, what happened to Guturvatus today will become the fate of each and every last member of the tribe. Am I understood?’

There was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet among the Carnutes and he straightened in his chair as he gestured to the centurion. ‘Get them out of my sight.’

The Carnutes were herded from the square and the general stood, stiffly. ‘The legions are hereby granted one full day’s furlough, following which we will be moving south at speed to bring the final few rebels in Gaul under control. Uxellodunon is our goal, men of Rome, and with its fall, we can tell the senate unequivocally that Gaul is ours.’

* * * * *