a respectable family himself, but there were skills one learned that came from lower-born influences. The smile sliding into a wide grin, he began to work at the lock with the spike, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth until, after a minute, there was a click and the lock fell open.
Much better this way. A rock would have been quicker, but it would have been impossible to conceal the fact that someone unauthorised had been here.
Taking a quick glance around the area, he satisfied himself that he was alone in the near dark. Taking a deep breath, he swung the gate open, grateful that it did not grind or squeak.
Lighting the oil lamp was quick and easy, since it had only very recently been extinguished and Priscus raised it above his head so as not to blind his night vision with the flickering flame. The encircling corridor stretched off for a couple of yards ahead but, as he shuffled down it, the arch into the central enclosure was close by.
Taking a deep breath, the possibility that someone could be lurking in the dark only now occurring to him, Priscus ducked swiftly through the arch and stood, his jaw agape as he took in the sight of the central chamber.
As with most high-born family mausolea of this fashion, the walls were dotted with alcoves, each of which held a cinerary urn for a member of the family. Between them, often below the urns, small inscriptions of high quality named the deceased, though none were large enough to be visible in the flickering lamplight from the doorway.
It was not these that had caused Priscus’ jaw to drop.
A large slab or table stood in the centre of the chamber and upon it lay the body of a woman. Priscus almost dropped the lamp as he stared at the peaceful form of the lady Clodia, coins on her eyes for the journey, her arms folded across her chest and topped with fresh flowers, the body wrapped from feet to sternum in expensive white Egyptian linen.
Priscus stumbled forward, his mind reeling. Clodia had been missing for months, though clearly, from the lack of decay, she had only died some time in the last day or two. His heart racing, he crossed to her and looked at the body in a low panic. Her throat bore a thin purple line. Strangled with something narrow; possibly a leather thong. He shuddered. Clodia was, there was no denying it, a wicked and troublesome woman and she had likely deserved this; earned it a hundred time over. And yet it was with a strange sadness that Priscus stood over the sleeping woman, her perfect face finally peaceful in death.
His hip gave way again and he staggered, fumbling with the lamp and almost dropping it. Wincing, he fell back against the wall, his heart leaping as two of the funeral urns wobbled distressingly for a moment. He grasped the base of an alcove and steadied himself as, for the first time, his eyes fell upon one of the inscriptions.
Priscus’ mind swam. He stared and then, shaking his head, pulled himself across to one of the other alcoves.
More.
Every alcove another Paetus.
Priscus stood blinking in the presence of the innumerable dead, heaving in deep breaths. Fronto was going to
PART TWO: ROMA INVICTA
Chapter 13
(Iunius: 5 miles from the north coast of Gaul, several weeks prior to Caesar’s victory over the Veneti at the battle of Darioritum.)
“It’s an actual city, then?”
Galba shrugged.
“Crociatonum? By Roman terms, hardly. But it’s certainly bigger and more… civic, than the oppida and villages we’ve been coming across. All evidence points to it being the centre of the Unelli’s tribal lands, and it’s crawling with thousands of people.”
Sabinus nodded thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his lip as his horse danced impatiently.
“The Unelli do seem to be at the centre of this grouping. The question is how to approach the situation.”
The three legates, each sat ahorse beside the commander, frowned to a man.
“If what we’ve been hearing is true, there could be a massive army lurking there; more even than the thousands the scouts reported. I’d have to counsel caution” Galba said quietly.
Rufus nodded.
“At least until the scouts return and give us more detailed information. Perhaps we can set up a temporary camp here.”
Sabinus glanced up at Plancus, who wore a thoughtful look.
“Has anyone given thought to why the Unelli would be gathering an army?” the man asked quietly.
“Because the Veneti have stirred up this entire corner of Gaul” Sabinus said flatly.
“Not true,” the legate of the Fourteenth said, frowning. “Crassus’ reports stated that the leaders of the Unelli and the Lexovii, at least, were very much pro-Roman late last year. Of all the tribes he dealt with up here, the Unelli chieftains actually supported him and even lent him troops. Why then would they revolt now?”
Sabinus sat silent, staring at the legate. Plancus had a point. The man had built such a bad reputation in the first year or two of the campaign that the rest of the officer corps had reached the point where they were automatically ignoring his opinions, in much the same fashion as the legions were treating Plancus’ heavily-Gallic Fourteenth.
“Interesting,” he nodded finally. “Certainly the Lexovii have sent their warriors here; numerous scouts have confirmed that. Although we cannot be sure the same is true of the Curiosolitae, the same seems likely to be the case. But then that raises a second question: if they’ve gathered a large army here, why is it just sitting in their city and not marching south to help their countrymen fight off Caesar?”
The four men exchanged doubtful glances. This entire action was an unknown quantity and, while Sabinus had the might of three Roman legions at his beck and call, the reduced and largely untrained Twelfth, the unpopular Fourteenth, and the under-strength Ninth constituted less than two full legions between them in terms of proper numbers. If all three of these tribes had sent their strength to this place, then estimates were that the Roman force would be facing odds of at least three to one, if not more.
“Sir!”
The officers turned to the cavalry trooper who was trotting up the hill toward them.
“What is it, soldier?”
“One of the scout parties is returning, general.”
Sabinus smiled.
“Good. Some useful information, hopefully.”
The trooper frowned.
“Sir, I don’t think they’re alone. There is a small party of native riders following them.”
“Chasing them?”
Rufus squinted into the distance.
“I don’t think so. They seem to be riding casually. I think we’re about to have visitors, sir.”
Sabinus nodded and looked around him before turning to the buccina player.
“Have the legions fall in and put the call out for the tribunes to join us.”
As the horn blared out, he smiled at the officers around him. “I know the men are tired, but we need to make an impression here. We need to present a solid core of hardened officers.”
Turning to Plancus, he pursed his lips.
“Do you have any senior officers in the Fourteenth who are still predominantly Gaulish?”
