The Bituriges oppidum of Avaricon (Modern Bourges)
Vercingetorix stretched and scratched his chin thoughtfully, keen eyes peering out into the chilly, damp morning. ‘What is the word from the scouts?’
Vergasillaunus rubbed tired eyes, but his expression was full of alertness and energy as he dragged his gaze from the oppidum in front of them and across to his cousin and ruler.
‘It seems that we have them sealed in tight.’
‘With the exception of the riders.’
Vergasillaunus nodded and Critognatos, who stood with his usual glower, curled a sneering lip. ‘You were foolish to let those horsemen go.’
The two cousins turned their gaze on the third chieftain present. ‘Everything I do is for a reason, Critognatos,’ the Arverni king said calmly, his smooth voice given counterpoint by the crows that filled the trees above the camp and cawed out their displeasure at this intrusion into their world.
‘Your reasoning baffles me, Vercingetorix. Those riders were sent to seek aid for the Bituriges before we had them trapped. We could have had this place sealed up tighter than a Roman’s arse and the populace in a panic, but because you let them get past, the men of Avaricon simply sit smug and await the arrival of the Aedui to save them.’
Vergasillaunus grinned. ‘You think the Aedui will rush to their aid?’
‘Of course they will. And it’s been two days now. I’m surprised they’re not here already, trying to stick spears in us. The Bituriges owe their allegiance to the Aedui, and they’re all oathbound to Rome. We’ve a strong army here, but it won’t be when we get trapped between the walls of Avaricon and the Aedui rescue force and ground like meal in a grindstone.’
Vercingetorix peered across at the oppidum, rising from the mist that concealed unpleasant, sucking death. He and his sizeable force had encamped on a hill to the east of the Bituriges’ capital with a view across the intervening shallow valley. The Biturige oppidum was well positioned on a hill situated within the confluence of two rivers which spread out and meandered to turn much of the surrounding landscape into marshland that was effectively uncrossable by an army. Nature had given Avaricon superb defences, and the Bituriges had augmented them with powerful walls and towers surrounding the hill and the settlement upon it. It was said that the granaries of Avaricon were so full and rich that the city would live a year without a fresh harvest. The only true access for an attacking army was this one: from the hill where they now stood, down into the valley and back up the other side, where they would dash themselves to pieces on the heavy walls while the Bituriges dropped rocks on them. It was a siege that no commander would wish to undertake, and Vercingetorix had no more wish to throw his army on those walls than any other general.
And so the bulk of the Gallic army had settled here, on the damp slope, sending out forays to set up small camps and patrols in a circuit around the place and make sure no further defenders managed to sneak out between the swamps and marshes. The riders’ escape had been part of the plan, but now isolation and uncertainty were required among the Bituriges within those walls. They had to be primed ready for the surprise the Arverni leader had in store.
With the enduring patience he saved for his more outspoken and imprudent chieftains, Vercingetorix turned to Critognatos again and smiled reassuringly. ‘There is little chance of that happening, my friend.’ He was beginning to have concerns over the wisdom of putting such a potentially unstable man in command of one of the army’s component forces, but Critognatos was popular with the older warriors and there was no denying his bravery or skill in battle. If only he would think a little harder before speaking or acting. ‘We are not here for battle, however it may appear. Even if we were successful and with negligible losses, the attack would be futile. We need the Bituriges with us, not strewn across the hillside, festering in the cold air and awaiting the carrion feeders.’
‘And you do that by allowing them extra support from those Rome-loving arseholes the Aedui?’
Vergasillaunus glanced at his cousin and saw the leader of the army counting silently under his breath, trying to keep his irritation contained. Perhaps they should have kept Cavarinos here. The soft-spoken young chief seemed to have the knack of keeping his brother under better control, for all their constant low-level argument. Since he had been gone, Critognatos had become ever more vocal and difficult. Before his cousin could lose his temper, Vergasillaunus leaned closer.
‘Our task is to bring all the tribes to us before the spring. That includes the Aedui, and they are a difficult proposition, so we take a lesson from the Romans who are experts at this. We play tribes and kings off against each other in the game of power and politics. And if we have planned our moves right, just as Caesar uses tribes to subdue one another without a drop of Roman blood spilled, we will bring all these tribes to our side without the need to take a sword to any of them.’
Critognatos’ sneer jacked up a notch as he put a thumb to his nostril and blew out a wad of snot, bringing sharp looks of disapproval from his companions. ‘I still don’t see how trebling their numbers and trapping us against their walls will achieve that.’
Vergasillaunus opened his mouth to answer but Vercingetorix, finally losing his patience, stepped forward. ‘Just trust us instead of all this constant complaint and gainsaying. We have planned this entire campaign down to the last thread, and within the next few days the Bituriges will be ours without a blow delivered. Have you not even an inkling as to what is happening?’
‘We’re sitting here and waiting.’
‘I mean as to where your brother has gone, for instance?’
Critognatos shook his head, showing no sign of inquisitiveness at all - was the man that unimaginative? ‘Probably rutting with some boy in a field somewhere.’
‘Gah!’ Turning his back on the stocky chieftain from Nemossos, the commander of the army and soon to be King of all the tribes strode off away from the irritating noble, his cousin pacing along at his side.
‘I am starting to worry over timing, mind, cousin,’ Vergasillaunus muttered quietly, eying the vast encampment as they walked and noting the signs of tension and ennui here and there. ‘He was right that they have had long enough.’
Vercingetorix looked across at his second-in-command. ‘All proceeds as planned, I am sure.’
A crow above echoed his word with a croak.
‘I hope so. We pin much upon one traitor and one kinsman. And I had thought they would be here by now. Half this army or more will be thinking along the same lines as Critognatos. He may be a borderline lunatic and short on imagination, but he is a good yardstick with which to measure the mood of the army.’
‘The traitor will do as we commanded. And if by some miracle he does not, Cavarinos can be trusted to put things back on track. Our friend may have only half the battle-skill of his brother, but he received more than his share of the brains. However the traitor plans to achieve his goal, be sure Cavarinos will keep things right, and we have our part of the plan in place.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ The two men turned their gaze back upon Avaricon, seething in a sea of miasmic fug. ‘I want them on our side, cousin. I would pay a good gold torc just to see Caesar’s face if he has to take this city from us.’
* * * * *
Cavarinos tried to catch the eye of Litavicus, but the warrior studiously ignored him.
The Arverni chieftain had been among the Aedui for only two days before events caught up with them. He and Litavicus - a young Aeduan noble apparently in the pay of Vercingetorix - had been met a mile from the vast, sprawling oppidum of Bibracte by the traitor’s brother in law, who seemed hungry for news of the Gallic force gathered at Avaricon, yet more hungry for his share of the gold coins that Litavicus dropped into his hand.
The young men had brought Cavarinos into Bibracte, through the powerful walls and along streets that ran between seemingly endless buildings, and introduced him that night to half a dozen other like-minded Aedui, including one Convictolitanis, a man currently standing for magistrate and effective control of the entire tribe. When faced with allies of this magnitude and assured that they were far from alone, the scale of the task for which they had come to Bibracte seemed diminished a little, though Cavarinos would have liked to have known more of it in advance.
Then, the next morning, six exhausted riders had appeared at the great western gate. A party of weary and wild-eyed horsemen of the Bituriges tribe, they claimed to have ridden like the wind from the oppidum of Avaricon, their tribe’s capital, to seek aid from the Aedui. They were seemingly under siege by the army of Vercingetorix. Cavarinos had felt a nervous jolt at that news. It had begun already. In these circumstances, were he discovered to be of the Arverni himself, his peeled skin would be displayed to the Aedui within hours. And how much could he trust Litavicus and his companions? How much could anyone trust an already proven traitor-for-money?
That afternoon, Litavicus had snuck him into a position among heavy, ancient roof beams where he could secretly observe the meeting of the tribal council in a grand hall of timber and stone. He had watched anxiously as events unfolded, aware of the potential for disaster at every turn. The Bituriges had begged for support - a relief force from the Aedui, whose tribe were so much more numerous and powerful than their own. Cavarinos had begun running through arguments against it in his head, wondering how he would get Litavicus to put them forth, but he was saved the effort when one of the tame nobles lining his pockets with Arverni silver had addressed the council.
The man had narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he threw out his arms and reminded those present that the Bituriges were as close to the Arverni as they were to the Aedui. That being the case, and the oath to Rome being so readily forgotten among the tribes these days, how could the Aedui be sure this was not simply a ruse to drag a large Aeduan force off where it could be massacred by Vercingetorix and his rebels? Undoubtedly the new Arverni ‘king’ planned to weaken and break their main opposition, and this had all the hallmarks of a duplicitous Arverni plot. Cavarinos had felt himself exhale in relief. It was a masterful nudge, and had almost persuaded the gathered nobles to refuse their aid to the Bituriges. But then, surprisingly, the magistrate Convictolitanis - claiming the mandate of Rome - had shaken his head. ‘We must support our allies in the face of such threat,’ he had announced.
What the hell is he doing? Cavarinos had thought. We almost had the Bituriges cut off, until this new turn of argument. But as he listened a thought had dawned upon him, and everything had quickly fallen into place. Claiming such mandate, the nobleman could act on behalf of Rome without having to actually apprise the legions of anything that was happening. In another genius stroke, the magistrate had kept all these matters from reaching the ears of the Roman commanders. Was that worth the potential threat to Vercingetorix of an Aedui relief army? More than likely. After all, the Romans had to be kept in the dark no matter what happened.
‘We will take a large force of cavalry and infantry to aid the Bituriges,’ the magistrate had announced, and once the approving and affirmative buzz had died down, the council had argued briefly before assigning command of that force to the same young Litavicus who had guided Cavarinos to the oppidum a few days earlier.
And now here they were, a day and a half later, closing on the wide Liger River which drew a natural boundary between the territory of the two tribes as it wound north and west on its great journey to the cold, unforgiving sea. The half dozen Bituriges riders accompanied them, satisfied that their capital would now be saved by the Aedui. Cavarinos had hidden his serpentine Arverni arm-ring in his pack and appeared to all intents and purposes just one more horseman in a faceless crowd of Aedui warriors, hungry for blood. What would happen when this sizeable force reached the army at Avaricon, Cavarinos could hardly suspect.
The slightly frosted dew on the turf left a trail of hoof and boot prints a hundred paces wide as the column slowly but inexorably descended on their target. Cavarinos pinched the bridge of his nose and winced.
Vercingetorix had tasked him with supporting Litavicus in his plan, though the niceties of that plan had been basic and vague at best. Neither Vercingetorix nor Litavicus had imparted the details to him, barring the basic essentials, in the knowledge that this way, should he be discovered, he could not imperil the whole plot. But once Litavicus had left the meeting with the Arverni king, Cavarinos had also been given the quiet word to make sure that the young Aeduan did not switch sides once more and betray them all.
So the Aeduan force was riding on Avaricon. What to do now? Trust that the traitor had something up his sleeve, or try and find a way to stop the advance? He had pondered the choice time and again since they left Bibracte, but continued to go along with Litavicus based solely on the premise that if the man intended further betrayals, there would be no reason to preserve Cavarinos’ anonymity and he would have been revealed and dealt with brutally. The Arverni noble’s ongoing survival suggested that Litavicus was still with them.
‘The bridge,’ called one of the warriors at the van, his breath pluming impressively as he rode back to the main force, which moved by necessity at a fast walking pace, limited by the speed of their slowest units. As the watery, cold sun neared its unimpressive apex, the army reached the slope that led down to the bridge across the Liger.
Cavarinos blinked.
On the rise above the far bank stood a force at least the size of their own, waiting. Two thousand warriors massed in three groups, with standards and carnyx horns rising above their heads and glittering in the pale light, a thousand more cavalry spread out in small parties among them. They waited before the treeline, but there were no birds in those trees, and that suggested the woods were also full of men - archers, perhaps? Before Cavarinos could express his own surprise, shouts and roars arose from the men surrounding him and the Aedui standards were waving to halt the column.
‘The magistrate was right!’
‘Traitorous dogs!’
‘What now?’
Chaos was pulled to order by the shouts of Litavicus and calls blasted through bronze horns. The six Bituriges among them were hustled back to the commander and, confused, Cavarinos edged his own mount back through the press to be within earshot.
‘Your purpose becomes clear!’ snarled Litavicus at the Bituriges riders before him. Cavarinos had to be impressed at the disgust and disdain prevalent in the man’s anger. It had clearly all been planned, so the young Aeduan was apparently a consummate actor.
‘I do not understand,’ blabbered one of the half dozen Bituriges, his head snapping back and forth between the angry face of the Aeduan commander and the sizeable force gathered across the river.
‘Who are they?’ hissed Litavicus, jabbing an angry finger at the opposing army.
‘They must… must be Arverni,’ another of the six stuttered in panicked confusion.
‘Really? Squint against the light and tell me what standards you see among them.’
A suspicion settled on Cavarinos and he did just that, having to fight to keep a slow smile from spreading across his face. Barely visible, they were, but if you squinted and strained, you could just make them out.
‘Horses,’ admitted the deflated Biturige rider.
‘Yes. Braid-maned horses. Several of them. And I think you know what the braid-maned horse means?’
Yes, Cavarinos thought, his mind working fast to put this puzzle together, Bituriges. They were the horse-standards of the Bituriges!
‘But I do not understand,’ spluttered the panicked rider. ‘How did they leave the oppidum? The Arverni must have left…fled the area…’
Cavarinos was fighting to keep that smile contained. He had seen unbraided horses on other standards… those of Vercingetorix’s staunch allies, the Carnutes, for example. The Carnutes, who were so deeply involved that they had loosed the first arrow of the war. Whose lands were close by, to the north, a stone’s throw from Avaricon. The Carnutes who’d had no task as yet but to join the main force at Avaricon. So long as the Aedui and the six panicked Bituriges did not make that same connection… time to nudge them further into suspicion of treachery.
He coughed to disguise the slight bark of laughter that had escaped despite all his efforts. ‘No,’ he announced, and for the first time Litavicus looked over at him. Cavarinos pointed at the army across the river. ‘As well as the many boars and the few braided horses, in the two larger groups, see the winged serpent of the Arverni among the third. Betrayal!’ he announced, echoing the thoughts rushing through the assembled force. ‘They seek to entrap us and thus weaken our tribe.’
Without warning, three of the Bituriges kicked their horses into action, fleeing the scene. Only two of them made it past the vanguard’s thrusting weapons, the third receiving a bronze spear point through the spine for his troubles, the shaft waving for a moment before the man fell from his steed and nearby Aeduan warriors rushed over to hack the unfortunate to pieces. From the angle at which he rode, it appeared that one of those pair who had made it was now living on time borrowed from the halls of the dead, clutching his side as a steady spray of crimson droplets left a trail across the green-white grass.
Before Cavarinos could say anything more, in anger, the assembled Aedui had slain the remaining three Bituriges among them, hacking at their necks with swords and impaling their torsos on long spears. One of the more rabid Aeduan riders made to follow the fleeing pair, his already-blooded sword brandished, but Litavicus called them back.
‘Leave them to their fate,’ he ordered. ‘This fight is not for us. Let the treacherous Bituriges wallow under the rule of the Arverni. Back to Bibracte!’ He managed to catch Cavarinos’ eye for a heartbeat as he turned, and there was a barely-perceptible nod. The job was done.
The force slowly turned, putting its back to the mysterious force of Arverni and Bituriges and making for the great oppidum of Bibracte once more. Cavarinos gave the army across the river a last brief glance, picturing them removing the wooden braids they had used to turn Carnute standards into Biturige ones. He wished he could see the trapped tribes folk in Avaricon when those two riders made it back to tell them that the Aedui were not coming and that they were on their own. The leaders’ resolve to defy Vercingetorix would crumble within the hour!
The Arverni noble kicked his horse on with the rest of the Aedui horsemen, allowing himself to drop towards the rear of the force. He would have to wait until dark to slip away from the retreating Aedui and return to the army of his kin. He would not have a chance to speak to Litavicus, but the young warrior had played his part and played it well, and Cavarinos had no doubt that they would meet again soon enough.
* * * * *
Cavarinos slung his heavy saddle bag to the damp turf outside Vercingetorix’ tent, a proud leather edifice bearing the name of some important Roman, which had been confiscated along with most of the interior furnishings from a cart in a Roman convoy near Vesontio early in the year. He knew his brother hated the thing, but the Romans made practical, durable kit, whatever else you thought of them, and the king of the Arverni couldn’t have hoped for a better campaigning tent.
The two men standing nearby had merely nodded to him as he arrived and he pushed his way inside without challenge. Vercingetorix sat on a plump, dark red cushion that was made from some smooth material Cavarinos had heard came all the way from the lands of the Seres, far over the mountains to the east of Greece. Nearby, Critognatos sat on a smooth log, showing disdain for such Roman luxuries. Vergasillaunus lounged in a wooden chair. None of the others were present, which was a great relief to Cavarinos, given the aches in his bones and the weary fug in his head following a ride at breakneck pace from the fleeing Aeduan force a few hours earlier. His horse would take a while to recover, and Cavarinos could do with a day or two’s sleep himself.
‘The hero returns,’ grinned Vergasillaunus. ‘How did you like our surprise?’
Cavarinos laughed a tired laugh and with a respectful nod at the king, sunk into the comfiest chair he could see, a Roman one lined with thin velvet cushions.
‘It surprised me, but you should have seen the look on the rest of the faces.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘I have to say that I was half-convinced that Litavicus was playing us false until the last moment. But he held it together well. The Aedui will be convinced that their allies have deserted them and come over to us.’
‘Which,’ Vergasillaunus grinned, ‘is precisely what will now happen, of course.’
‘Neatly done. And, of course, the Aedui will begin to think on the value of their oath to Rome in the knowledge that Caesar and his army are separated and their supply and communication lines ruined, while our army grows ever stronger. They might not be ready to commit yet, mind, even with traitors working for us from within.’
Vergasillaunus nodded. ‘But we must have them. When we have the Aedui, a dozen other wavering tribes will throw in their lot with us.’
The Arverni king cracked his knuckles, drawing silence from the tent. ‘We will stay here at Avaricon until all is settled to our satisfaction. The survivors of your little foray made their way back into the oppidum an hour or two before you returned and this night the whole tribe will panic, debate, argue and hide their valuables. Then, in the morning, I expect to see their deputation come forth with the desire to join us. I anticipate a week or more, though, before we can be certain that things are correct here, and in that time I will draw a sizeable force from them to bolster our army. Then, in due course, we will move on west, against the Boii oppidum of Gorgobina. The Boii also live within Aedui protection and their fall to us will help weaken the Aedui’s resolve. I see this as the last series of moves before we are ready to face the legions. Gorgobina will be flattened and the Boii annihilated. The Aedui will realise they are alone. They will send to the Romans for aid, but their commander in the field is careful and prudent. He will not commit to them without his general’s consent, for he will fear another winter that sees the loss of entire legions. The Aedui will be truly isolated, and our traitors will turn them to us. Then, with the aid of the reticent tribes of the northwest, we will become a vast horde, easily capable of swatting the ten legions in the north. All is proceeding as expected, my friends. But we must be cunning and political and not deviate from the plan.’
Cavarinos nodded his understanding, though there was an unhappy rumble from his brother. Critognatos stirred and ran his fingers through his beard, ripping out the tangles in the matted hair. ‘So you trick our neighbours into distrusting one another, and now you will destroy a small tribe just to shake the resolve of a larger one. Why bother fighting the Romans at all, when we can be just like them?’
He spat on the floor, and Cavarinos noted the slight narrowing of their king’s eyes at such behaviour in his tent.
‘I do not expect you to make war on other tribes, Critognatos,’ the king said in icy tones. ‘You have made your opinions abundantly clear. I have another task for you. The Carnutes have sent a reasonable force south to join us - enough to fool and worry the Aedui, but not half as many as I was expecting. And the Senones as yet send no one, despite their promises. You are concerned that we risk our forces when we should be increasing them? Then I task you with riding north alongside a few good men to visit the tribes and remind them of their loyalties. Draw from them more promises of warriors and make sure those promises are held to and that the reinforcements are sent to join us here.’
Critognatos’ face showed a modicum of disappointment that he was still not being sent to kill Romans, but the knowledge that he would not now be required to fight other tribes, and the faint tang of pride in the importance of the task assigned to him got the better of him, and he nodded with a rare smile. ‘To the Carnutes and the Senones to begin with, then?’
‘And then the Cenomani, the Meldi and the Parisi. And follow up on anything you might come across on other local tribes on your journey. Do not get too close to the Roman forces up there, though. Caesar’s pet war-dog Labienus is in that region, and he is a dangerous man. He would not leap to the aid of the Aedui, but he will not countenance rebels stirring up the local tribes. Use your initiative.’
Cavarinos fought the urge to roll his eyes at the tying of the word ‘initiative’ with his brother, but as Critognatos nodded he saw a look pass between the commanding cousins. Just for a moment he wondered whether the pair might even have considered this duty in the north solely to rid themselves of the difficult chieftain for a time.
‘And you, Cavarinos,’ Vergasillaunus said, still with that twinkling smile.
‘Me?’
‘I am afraid,’ Vercingetorix sighed, ‘you will have little time to rest. Take tonight to recover from your time among the Aedui, for tomorrow you ride north with your brother.’
A cold stone of disappointment settled in Cavarinos’ stomach. ‘But…’
‘No.’ Vercingetorix’s face took on the look that Cavarinos knew brooked no argument, so he fell silent. ‘I have another task for you,’ the king continued. ‘A young uidluias seer with a great reputation for lore and for the sight joined us along with the Carnutes. She tells me that the ongoing depredations of the Romans has awoken the ire of the great god Ogmios and that the lord of words and corpses has bent his strength and will to a new curse with them in mind.’
Cavarinos had to fight once more to hold in his contempt. Ogmios, the Lord of Words. Unlike the common curse tablets, etched by the desperate in the hope of Divine interference and cast into holy springs, his curse tablets came written by the god’s hand, straight from the sky, it was said, and only during the worst storms, amid the crash of thunder and the flare of lightning. They were rarer than a bird flying backwards. Kings and chieftains had fought wars over the ownership of one of the insipid artefacts. Priceless, they were. And as far as Cavarinos was concerned, prime superstitious bullshit.
‘You would send me to the shepherds of the ways to collect a curse? It is wasted effort. Send me instead to procure weapons, horses and men, for it is they who will help us beat Rome. Not the trickery and tomfoolery of druids.’
Vercingetorix’s face still held that fixed expression, defying him to push his luck. But Cavarinos’ opinion of druids and curses and such drivel was well-known among his peers. That the king would even consider sending him bowing and scraping to the druids was little short of an insult.
‘I detest their kind and their attempts to control all the tribes and chieftains of the land. And they know it, too. There is every chance that they will refuse me upon sight. Send me to rouse the tribes and send Critognatos to fawn to the shepherds. He believes in them.’
Vercingetorix had the grace to look faintly apologetic. ‘In truth, my friend, I know all these things, and it was in neither my mind nor my heart to send you.’
‘Then why order it?’
‘Because the uidluias who told me of the curse also told me that only you can find it and wield it. Curious, the ways of gods, are they not?’
Cavarinos opened his mouth to argue, but instead looked at the three faces arrayed before him. Neither of the leaders would ever submit to the power of the druids, but both still respected their power and held them in esteem. And as for Critognatos: well, Cavarinos would find no help there. The uidluias had spoken the will of gods, and her voice carried a thousand times the weight of his to their ears. Argument was futile. He sighed. ‘Where do I start?’
‘The greatest nemeton and gathering of the shepherds is in Carnute lands, and there Ogmios is strong. That would seem the place to begin.’
* * * * *
‘We should have come through the mountains,’ grunted the heavy-set Cadurci warrior with the grisly necklace. Lucterius, his chief and superior in every manner barring foulness of appearance, shook his head, glancing distastefully at the necklace, formed of four dozen Roman teeth, each one selected and removed while its owner was still conscious, and threaded onto the cord with a hole drilled through the enamel. It might be common practice for the warriors to gather gruesome mementos, even down to the preserved Roman heads that he knew his cousin kept in his house, but the clatter and rattle of these particular souvenirs always set Lucterius’ own teeth on edge.
‘The mountains are all-but impassable at this time of year, and you know that. There is every chance we would have to dig our way through snow as deep as two men. This route was longer, but trust me, it was still quicker.’
The initial force of two thousand Cadurci warriors, augmented by men drawn from the Petrocorii, the Nitiobroges and the Volcae, now numbered in excess of six thousand, and that number would rise by at least another two thousand by nightfall, as the Ruteni had pledged horsemen, warriors and many of their infamous and deadly archers to the cause.
Lucterius looked along the narrow grassy valley ahead, which angled to the southeast and would deliver them into the lands of Roman Narbonensis in a matter of days. Above them, along the hillsides, thick, tangled forests kept their advance secret from potential onlookers, and the scouts ahead had as yet found no sign of Roman outposts.
The army had taken a circuitous route, curving out towards Aquitania and the western ocean before arcing back east and south, making the most of the gorges, narrow defiles and oft-unknown forest paths of the region. There was no chance, of course, that the Roman province knew they were coming, but Lucterius was nothing if not careful, and their route had taken them by secretive ways such that they would appear on the edge of Roman territory unnoticed and unexpected.
And without having to dig their way through a snowy pass…
He smiled to himself at what he imagined at the end of their journey: the freeing of the people. Narbonensis would fall, ripped from the Romans’ grasp and released from their endless taxes and uniformity and laws. And they would once again become a free land of Volcae, Tectosages, Arecomici and all the other tribes who had languished under Roman rule for so long. For it was no good Vercingetorix and his far-seeing Arverni raising all the tribes to fight back the Romans without freeing their captive brothers in the south after a century of domination.
He glanced back to see his force pouring through the valley behind him, skirting the low mound of some Ruteni town or other, where the men cheered this show of strength in the face of Roman rule, and the women leaned over the walls and, despite the bone-freezing chill, bared their breasts at the passing warriors, who laughed and called back in delight.
He could only imagine the different scene if they had come the direct route across the mountain passes. Instead of the inviting pink breasts of the local women, his men would be digging a path through packed snow and spending half the time burying their own dead and snapping off hardened blue-black toes.
No. He had suggested this route to Vercingetorix, and the Arverni king had been wholeheartedly in agreement. In less than a week they would be in Narbonensis and bringing fear, fire and the sword to all who held to Roman rule.
His own tribe were not so far north of here, to the south of the Arverni, and it had been Lucterius who had given the king the initial estimates of the garrison and approximations of the general strength of Narbonensis. But recent conversations with the few Volcae who still lived outside the borders of the republic and with the free Ruteni had supported his estimates.
The standing garrison of Narbo would number no more than a thousand. There were other Roman units scattered about the province, particularly to the west, furthest from Rome, but between them all not more than a thousand. That meant a rough figure of two thousand in the whole province. A quarter of the number that Lucterius brought south. And they were not battle-hardened veteran legionaries like Caesar’s troops, but slovenly, fat and untried garrison troops who had faced no threat in living memory.
Moreover, there was almost no chance of the entire force being brought together with less than a week’s notice, scattered as they were across the breadth of the province. And there was no more threat from the Roman forces down in the Iberian lands than there was from those in Caesar’s province on the far side of the Alpes.
Narbonensis was in his sight and would fall swiftly. He had already planned the next move, once they had thundered south and taken Narbo. All ships impounded, and the cavalry would split into smaller groups, racing east and west to secure all the main routes from the province while the rest would occupy Narbo and move on in groups to the other cities and ports, securing them as they went. Word of the province’s fall would have to be kept from Caesar’s ears for as long as possible. Then, and only then, would Vercingetorix be free to wipe out their presence in the north.
And the once-subjugated tribes would help bolster the rebel forces when they realised that they were free and the continuation of that freedom depended upon their willingness to fight for it. Narbonensis’ Roman garrison may be weak, but its defence by the native tribes would be a much different matter. Rome had been expanding for generations. This spring would signal the start of its reversal.
Briefly, he wondered whether the Greek council of Massilia could be persuaded from their alliance with Rome and into a collective allegiance with the tribes. All things were possible if you were bargaining from a strong enough position. Narbo first. Then the coast and the borders, and then the great population centres: Tolosa, Arelate and Massilia.
He smiled. The province was almost within his grasp now.
* * * * *
Fronto shifted his arm slightly to distribute the weight more comfortably and reached round, patting young Lucius on the back and then running his hand round in small circling motions.
‘This is not really seemly for a soldier,’ he said, almost under his breath.
Lucilia gave him an arch look and he lowered his eyes under that flinty gaze. ‘I’m just saying.’
‘You’re doing well. Lucius is almost settled. Soon he will be fast asleep. At least I gave you him and not his brother. I wonder if Marcus is so stubborn and difficult because I gave him your name?’
Fronto sighed and continued to circle his hand.
‘I’m hungry.’
His wife opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of slapping feet across marble drew their attention to the doorway that led into the Atrium. Slapping bare feet meant one of Fronto’s singulares bodyguards. Everyone else in the villa complex had soft leather shoes for household time, but the soldiers under Fronto’s command had refused the soft boots in favour of their nail-soled military wear, so in response Lucilia had denied them access to the house with those boots on.
Sure enough, Palmatus appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat on his approach to warn them, as if that were necessary. Fronto smiled as he looked down. Palmatus’ feet, hardened like old oak by decades of marching, rested carefully on the mosaic of branches and grapes. The former legionary had never exhibited strong signs of a superstitious nature, yet Fronto had seen him perform an odd skip in his step so as not to tread on the face of a god as he passed through a room. In fact, Fronto was thinking of having the room’s floor re-laid to make it more challenging and humorous for the commander of his guard.
‘Fronto?’
Palmatus winced as the new parents in the room beyond motioned for him to lower his voice, gesturing to the almost-sleeping twins.
‘Bad night,’ Fronto whispered.
‘I know. We heard. Not so much the boys shouting, but more your own complaining as you kept wandering round the villa trying to get them back to sleep.’
‘Serves you right for setting guards. I told you you didn’t need them here.’
‘What’s the use of a bodyguard that don’t actually guard you?’ Palmatus shook his head as if to wrench himself from the conversation. ‘Stop distracting me,’ he said, and realised his voice had risen again, so dropped it low. ‘You need to come out front and see this.’
Fronto frowned and glanced at Lucilia, who was gently lowering young Marcus into the blankets. She reached out to take Lucius from him. With Fronto she would argue the point, but she knew Palmatus well enough to know that such interruptions were never trivial. Fronto passed his son over to her.
‘What is it?’ he hissed as the pair left and crossed the atrium, Palmatus performing his usual dance routine to avoid the faces.
‘As I said: you need to see it.’
The two men strode through the atrium, nodding their respect to the altar of the lares and penates and to the small shrine of Janus who blessed their comings and goings. Despite the chill in the air, the villa’s main door remained open, as Lucilia vaunted the daily airing of the whole place, pronouncing it good for the health of the children, even though it made Fronto’s knee ache unbearably and made his sleep pattern patchy at best.
The villa’s owner stopped on the doorstep, his eyes rising across the courtyard and the two neat lawns enclosed by the waist-high perimeter wall. The open grassland beyond was being systematically churned to mud by the passage of nailed boots. ‘What in the name of Fortuna?’
‘More Mars, I’d say,’ Palmatus added. The pair watched as neatly turned-out legionaries stomped past the gate in the uncomfortable rhythm of the quick march. Whoever they were and wherever they were going, they seemed to be in a hurry.
‘The council of Massilia aren’t going to like this. They disapprove of whole legions entering their boundaries without prior consent. They get touchy when a there’s more than a dozen of us together, all armoured.’
Palmatus nodded, remembering the arguments they had had with the officials of the city in getting permission for Fronto’s singulares to enter the city with him armed and in force. Masgava and Aurelius traipsed over to join them from the building’s corner. ‘Notice something unusual about them yet, sir?’ Aurelius nudged.
‘They’re clean. That’s pretty damned odd for a start!’
‘No, sir. No insignia, sir. Can’t be a legion without insignia.’
Fronto frowned, but the singulares soldier was quite right. As he watched century after century of men go past there was not a hint of a standard or vexillum flag among them. ‘No standards? Then who are they?’
‘Dunno, sir,’ Aurelius replied. ‘But they had no eagle in the van either.’
Fronto pursed his lips. ‘Masgava? Run along to the barracks and have the men fall in, well turned-out and so fast they leave blurred lines in the air.’
Without questioning, the big Numidian ran off around the corner for the bunkhouse the singulares shared, Aurelius at his heel.
‘Why?’ Palmatus asked.
‘Caesar.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Who else would be marching through Massilia in the direction of Gaul with a legion so new they don’t even have a name or number?’ He glanced at Palmatus. The man was not armed or armoured, but he wore a neat, clean tunic and his military belt, and was already slipping on his nailed boots that had been waiting outside the door. He was neat enough to pass muster, especially since he had still not taken the army’s oath, serving in a non-standard unit outside the ranks of the legions.
Sure enough, as Fronto listened, he could hear the drumming of hooves as a small party of horsemen came trotting along the line of men, the gold-on-crimson Taurus flag of Caesar wavering in the cold wind above them.
‘Looks like we’ll be heading north early this year,’ Fronto hissed.
‘You knew he’d come quickly,’ Priscus replied, stepping out of the villa and lacing his boots hurriedly.
‘Shit. Galronus is still down in Campania. We’re going to have to go without him!’
Priscus gave him a sly grin. ‘I’ve met your sister, Fronto. Galronus has got plenty of his own battles in store without having to return to Gaul.’
The three men stood before the villa’s door as the small party of cavalry reached the gate and slowed, three riders dropping from their saddles, stretching in the manner of men who had been ahorse too long for comfort. Caesar looked bright and well, and his face, while it held no smile, did not appear perturbed as Fronto had expected. Aulus Ingenuus - the general’s praetorian commander - walked alongside easily, his hand resting calmly on the pommel of his gladius. The man at the other side brought a smile to Fronto’s face. He had not seen Brutus for some time, and the young officer’s presence brightened any occasion.
‘General,’ Fronto bowed his head, a gesture echoed by the men at his sides.
Caesar nodded in return as Ingenuus’ ever-watchful eyes inspected every corner of the building and Brutus smiled warmly. ‘Marcus. Gnaeus.’ His eyes picked out Palmatus and he simply nodded, unable to recall the man’s name. ‘Apologies for the unannounced visit, but we travelled as fast as any message might have done.’
‘And with a new legion?’
The general chuckled. ‘The bones and tendons of a legion, but without the muscle and skin as yet. They are far from ready, but are fully equipped and have had the introduction of basic training. They move and look like a legion, and they are still enthusiastic.’
Priscus shrugged. ‘They can be trained when we reach Agedincum and they combine with the rest of the legions. I presume we are to pack, general?’
Caesar smiled wearily. ‘Yes, but not this day. The recruits will encamp upon the heath above you for the night. We must away before the day wears on tomorrow, but I think everyone needs one night’s rest and it would be remiss of me to pass through without paying my respects to your charming wife and her father. And meeting your boys, of course. I bring gifts for them both.’
Fronto frowned. ‘How did you know…?’
‘I hear everything, Marcus. You know that.’ He looked past Fronto at Priscus, standing in the doorway. ‘I have decided to forego the peril of marching up the Rhodanus and into inevitable Gaulish traps, Prefect. We are bound instead for Narbo and the mountain passes into Arverni lands. I gather from your missive that you took that route in your escape, so perhaps you can tell me a little of what we face?’
As the general swept past them into the villa, uninvited and falling in side by side with Priscus, Fronto watched them, shaking his head. Every time Caesar appeared upon the scene, the play ran off-course from its text and all bets were off. He sighed.
‘Have you missed us, Fronto?’ Brutus chuckled.