‘We can last a matter of days, anyway. After that, we will have to look into the problem again. At least we seem to have the measure of them at the walls now.’
The men nodded. With the arrival of the three cohorts to bolster the defences, the enemy had settled into a siege, making only occasional forays to the gates or walls. It seemed the fort was no longer the easy prospect they had expected and sought, and their voracity had quickly faded. The discovery of the forage carts, however, had explained quite clearly the food situation, and now the Germans simply waited for them to starve.
‘All the martial supplies are distributed around the walls. We…’
The centurion paused in his report at a hammering on the door. Cicero frowned. Interruptions were not acceptable during briefings, but in the circumstances, it might be important.
‘Come!’
The door opened and a legionary scurried in and came to attention with a smart salute.
‘Sir!’
‘What is it, soldier?’
The legionary broke into a wide grin. ‘Relief, sir.’
‘The legions?’ Cicero frowned.
‘Dunno, sir, but there’s thousands of Roman and allied Gaulish cavalry at the end of the valley coming this way, and it’s put the shi… it’s unsettled the Germans, sir. Looks like they’re packing to leave in a hurry.’
The tension in the room broke and the officers breathed deep with relief.
‘Thank Mars and Minerva,’ said the most senior centurion, currently filling in as Primus Pilus. ‘I will never be so glad to see the other legions muscling in on our glory!’ he grinned.
Cicero nodded, though the sense of relief he felt was tempered with worry. If the army was coming, the Fourteenth were saved. But Cicero knew the general well and shuddered at the thought of the interview that loomed in his near future.
Chapter Nineteen
The forest of Arduenna.
The singulares moved down the narrow track, keeping close together. They were not the well-equipped, sizeable unit who had left Caesar’s camp what felt like years before. Gone was the pack train, almost all the supplies used up and what was left cartable by the men. Gone were the mounts. The area of forest they were in now was not conducive to easy riding, and the trail only Ullio and Samognatos seemed able to follow led often through terrain that no horse could negotiate. That hardly mattered now, since it seemed that Ambiorix and his men were also on foot. How else could they manage such terrain themselves. Gone also, however, were more than half the men.
Fronto ground his teeth as he did every time he made the calculation. Nine remaining of an original twenty. Arcadios, Quietus, Magurix, Iuvenalis and Celer alone remained of the sixteen chosen men, along with Palmatus, Masgava, Samognatos and Fronto. Ullio, of course, could hardly be counted among their number for all his presence.
And that meant that they had lost too many good men along the way:
Galatos, missing in the druidic town of Divonanto, presumably murdered by the traitor. Myron and Pontius, felled in the woods by Segni warriors. Damionis murdered in his sleep. Brannogenos — not such a good man, of course, fled into the woods to plan further harm. Numisius and Biorix alive — presumably — but sent back to Caesar’s army as messengers. Luxinio dead on watch when the animal-headed bandits had attacked, and Valgus also missing since that fight. And finally, Drusus, murdered on watch last night, though no cause of death could be determined without the medical expertise of Damionis. Damn it!
Nine men. Plus Ullio. And rumour suggested that Ambiorix’s small party of warriors would be a rough match for them.
It was a touch of a concern, given that they could not be more than half a day behind Ambiorix as the fugitive king made for the great river and likely to freedom across its waters among the enemies of Rome. What if they caught up and Ambiorix managed to best his pursuers? It was a real possibility, given how weary and travel worn they all were, the evenness of numbers, the unfamiliarity of Fronto’s men with the terrain and the desperation Ambiorix would be labouring with. Desperation lent strength, as Fronto knew from personal experience.
And yet when he thought deeply on it, Fronto managed each time to convince himself that he would win. Ambiorix may have the strength of a desperate man, but Fronto and his men had determination on a level undreamed of. And the sanction of Arduenna, apparently, added to his own personal deities Fortuna and Nemesis.
If only it weren’t for the uncertainty of what Brannogenos, the sigil-draped superstitious traitor, was up to somewhere in the forest.
One way or another it would be settled soon, and Fronto would invoke the name of Nemesis as he took that bastard by the scruff of the neck and bled him for every secret he had, before sending Caesar the head to put a final halt on the destruction, albeit somewhat late in the day.
His reverie swirled in surprise as something clanged off his helmet so hard it almost knocked him over. The small column of men burst into activity as figures poured out of the undergrowth to either side of the narrow track. Fronto reflexively drew his blade and turned. Already, Palmatus and Celer were armed and moving on the ambushers.
Fronto took a step towards them, the familiar rush of adrenaline at the instigation of a fight thrilling through him, but his eyes narrowed, and his feet were already skidding to a halt in the dust as his gaze picked out details.
No mail or helms in evidence. One or two of the more-than-a-dozen attackers bore swords, but even they were ancient, rusted things. Most carried a sickle or a sharpened pole or various farm or craftsman tools. The big brute advancing on Palmatus with furious ire was clearly a smith, the great hammer swinging in his hand no weapon of war, but the tool of an artist.
‘Form up!’ he yelled. Masgava and Samognatos whirled in confusion, but the rest, trained with the legions to obey commands even before they’d heard them fully, were already back out at the dusty path centre, straightening into a line, weapons drawn and ready, but no longer threatening immediate violence.
Masgava and the scout took only a moment to realise what was happening and quickly back-stepped away from the fight. Ullio was already out front, hands up in a gesture of peace. The big blacksmith kept coming, his hammer pendulous, and Fronto stepped in front of the man, reversing his grip on his blade and using the hilt to push aside the hammer. The smith glared at him and began to raise the weapon, but Fronto simply shook his head silently.
Back at the edge of the path, where two boys too young to shave wielded farm tools threateningly, Ullio raised his voice and threw out a question in his own tongue. The smith, his head cocking to one side, narrowed his eyes at Fronto and stepped back to his people.
‘They are refugees,’ Ullio announced, waving at Fronto to put his sword away.
‘I’d guessed,’ the commander replied, nodding meaningfully towards the smith’s hammer as he sheathed his blade. The big man still eyed him suspiciously, but slowly upended the hammer and slid it through a leather loop at his side, where it hung easily.
Fronto turned to the rest of his men.
‘Sheathe your weapons. These people aren’t our enemy.’
The men of the singulares seemed more than happy to put away their swords and settled into an ‘at ease’ stance. The rest of the refugees, at a word from an old man with a pitted iron sword, pushed their way out onto the path. There were perhaps four dozen of them, mostly old men, women and young children. Barring a farmer and the smith, there was a notable absence of men of fighting age, which brought a lump to Fronto’s throat, since everyone present knew what that meant.
The old man rattled off into his own language at Ullio, who nodded, giving him a sympathetic smile, and then replied. After a short exchange, the Eburone hunter turned to Fronto.