Valley 60 miles northwest of Narbo. Roman territory.
Lucterius glanced back over his shoulder. His small band of a dozen warriors were barely discernible, scrambling through the brush and trying not to make noise despite the frosty brittleness of the world, which waited impatiently for spring to return, bringing life and warmth. The army itself was not visible from here, safely secured around the spur of land up the valley. They had widely skirted the great metropolis the Romans called Tolosa days ago, taking care not to alert any Roman authorities to their presence.
It had been an interminable journey, and he knew that the army and the nobles who commanded it were restless, wishing nothing more than to be at the gates of Narbo putting Roman patricians to the sword. And even Lucterius, who was careful and knew the need for such a circuitous route, was grateful for a small chance at action.
The army had zigged and zagged like the trail of a snake through the lands of tribes who had as much cause to support the Romans as his own rebels, carefully seeking out those who could be trusted, turning peoples to their cause and increasing the size of his army. For the past three days they had edged southeast along the fringe of Roman territory, staying out of sight of the larger population centres, just in case.
And now, perhaps an hour ago, they had passed that invisible, yet oh-so-crucial line that the Romans had drawn across the world to say ‘this is ours’ and located the first of the Roman watch posts. The helpful Ruteni had described the Roman border well. A series of watchtowers within sight of each other, each built on a high place along ridges or river banks as nature dictated.
For three days, Lucterius had put off the move, despite the complaints of his nobles; for he knew that crossing the border with any sizeable force would set off the signal fires that would warn the entire province of danger. And then, this morning, blessed Sucellos had sent up a chill mist from the low peaks of the region, rising like perspiration from the sodden trees that covered the uplands. And Lucterius had known that the time had come. The army could approach the Roman border unnoticed and a small force could take out a signal station without being spotted by its neighbours. And if it all took place quickly enough, the army could be among the mountain passes and in the province unseen before anything happened.
Which would be several days yet. The Ruteni had confirmed that the Roman guards spent a week at the watchtower before they returned to their garrison, rotated with other soldiers. By the time the destruction of the signal tower was discovered, the army of Lucterius of the Cadurci would be in the streets of Narbo and the warning would be fruitless.
A dozen men. That was all he had taken. Given that the Ruteni said the garrison of one of these signal stations was an eight-man unit it should be plenty to silence the place without too much trouble, especially with surprise on their side, and he had chosen to deal with the place himself partially to display his willingness to be part of the army as well as its commander, but mostly to relieve the tension and ennui that had come with the waiting.
Focusing his attention on the task at hand, Lucterius paused as he reached the high, lichen-pasted wall of a chambered tomb, still undisturbed and with shrubbery growing up the front. Peering around the edge as he waved his men to stop, he examined his target.
The station was much like any other Roman military structure he had seen. They were so damned predictable! A stockade of sharpened stakes surrounded a small dome-shape in the land which rose above the tree line to give the occupants a clear view. It would have a gate in it, probably barred and tied. Inside was a low timber building, the roof of which was just visible above the stockade - the barracks of the garrison, of course. And a very basic timber-frame tower with a platform. Lucterius could see no sign of a beacon, but then such a signal would probably burn down the tower. He’d not thought to enquire of the Ruteni what system of signalling they used. He had assumed flame. Never mind… whatever system it was, they would not get to use it.
There was no sign of the usual ditches outside the stockade, the rocky hillside rendering such defences both unnecessary and impossible. He could vaguely hear the sounds of a horse within, which would likely serve to ride for the city should need arise - that would need to be taken out straight away, just in case. And atop the tower, leaning on his curved body shield, lounged a watchman. His gaze seemed fixed on the horizon far from the tower, unaware of the true proximity of danger.
Lucterius turned and made motions to his men. Two of them were Ruteni archers - the best he had, according to their chief, and at his signal, they took up position at the far side of the stone tomb. Lucterius and his remaining ten crouched low to best use the scrub for cover and began to work their way up to the walls, the leader praying to his gods that the watchman remained oblivious.
In a score of heartbeats he was closing on the stockade. All seemed to be peace. Not a single voice echoed from within, just the snorting and huffing of the horse. It was so quiet that when they stopped and held their breath that he could hear the sound of the man atop the platform scratching himself. Another set of hand signals, and his favoured warrior nodded, drawing a wicked-sharp sickle from his belt. With three deep, steadying breaths, Lucterius turned and gave a wave back at the chambered tomb.
An arrow sped from the shadows below the tomb and thudded into the Roman watchman’s face. It had flown true and deadly, killing the man and silencing him instantly in the very act. The only noise that arose from the attack was the thump of the body hitting the wooden platform and the faint clunk of the shield falling on top of it.
As soon as Lucterius saw the body vanish, he started to run around the stockade, his warriors with him. The other seven men of the garrison would hear the attack now and rush to defend the gate while sending another man or two up the ladder. But the two archers by the dolmen had proved their skill, and Lucterius didn’t fancy the chances of a Roman reaching the tower platform alive, let alone managing to get off a warning.
And they were at the gate suddenly, rounding the stockade in moments. Lucterius was thrilled through with joy and surprise in equal quantities to discover the gate wide open and inviting. His gaze took in the surrounding area and spotted the Roman, who had been standing near the trees a few paces away, urinating happily. Now he was turning, his privates still bared, desperately trying to draw the blade at his belt, his shield absent, presumably still inside.
Lucterius gestured to more of his men and two warriors peeled off from the group, mobbing the unfortunate Roman and dispatching him with twin thrusts to neck and groin before the tip of his sword had even left his scabbard. The man’s scream was cut off instantly as the steel cut through windpipe and voice box before grating on spine.
Ignoring the man’s demise, Lucterius hurtled through the inviting gate, his remaining eight men at his heel. Cunorix, his best warrior and chosen companion, was already making for the horse, sickle out to the side ready for the blow. The Cadurci leader loved horses, and the necessary death of the Roman beast weighed upon him, so he turned from the scene and made for the barracks, the only evidence of the savage act the sudden curtailing of the snorting and a brief thud and rumble as the animal thrashed.
And then, a moment later, Lucterius was in through the barrack door, one man at his heel while the others secured the perimeter and checked for more men outside the stockade.
His surprise only deepened as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior.
Eight beds in the form of four twin bunks filled the far end, all of which were bare and empty. The near end was some kind of communal kitchen, mess hall, living space and storeroom.
And one man - the only occupant - had managed to raise his shield and draw his sword. His head was bare, his helmet still hanging from his bedpost by the chin ties. The man’s expression was one of savage defiance and haughtiness - typical of the smug Romans.
Lucterius was on him in moments. His long sword, heavy and strong, came over in a wide sweep. To his credit, the Roman raised his shield well, but there was little he could do against the unstoppable weight of the blade. The Gallic sword slammed down into the shield, shredding the fine bronze edging into twisted strips and smashing through the layered wood and leather before sticking at the bulbous boss.
The shield was useless, though the Roman was quicker and smarter than Lucterius had given him credit for, using his grip on the heavy encumbrance to help him stab forward with his own sword. The Cadurci chief would forever thank his gods and count himself a lucky man that his own momentum carried him automatically aside, and the Roman blade scored along the side of his ribcage, tearing links from his mail shirt but leaving him otherwise unscathed.
With a roar of anger, the Roman discarded his useless shield, and Lucterius felt his trapped sword ripped from his hand by the action. For a moment, he realised that he was actually in real danger. The Roman was quick and decisive, and that wicked gladius was already back and coming in for another blow.
As the chief tried urgently to recoil from the attack, the Roman’s face suddenly exploded in a welter of blood, teeth and brains. Lucterius stared wide-eyed as the mangled soldier toppled backwards in a cloud of his own brain matter, falling awkwardly as the tip of the Roman spear that had passed through his head slammed into the ground.
The chieftain continued to stare, heaving in breaths, and finally turned to see one of his men in the doorway, his arm still raised from the throw.
As he began to recover with an exhale, Lucterius nodded his thanks.
‘What of the compound?’
‘Nothing. One horse. Nothing else.’
Lucterius frowned, shaking his head. ‘Three men? It cannot be.’ His gaze took in the barracks, and what he saw confirmed the truth of it. Eight beds - five unslept in and bare, three with rucked blankets. Only three marching poles in the corner. Just three men. All dead with no signal sent.
‘That’s it, then. The crossing is ours. And the mist will still fill the land for an hour or more. Send word to the army to begin moving into the valley. No more dallying now. We move straight on Narbo, and we’ll be at its gates before you can blink.’
The men cheered as they went over the bodies and kit of the Romans, searching for valuables or salvageable equipment. As Cunorix, his second, approached, drenched in the blood of the horse, Lucterius pursed his lips, a haunted look to his eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’
Lucterius turned his worried look on his companion. ‘It was so easy. And now the way is clear and Narbo lies waiting for us. But where were the others, Cunorix? Three men, not eight. And the other five have been here recently, for their pots sit in the corner unwashed. I wish we had taken one alive to interrogate. I do not like such surprises.’
‘Perhaps it was a gift from the gods?’
Lucterius nodded, though with little enthusiasm. ‘I hope you’re right, Cunorix, but I am starting to have a bad feeling about this.’
* * * * *
Lucius Aufridius Aprilis swallowed nervously. He held the military rank of tribune, though it had been a good four years since he had last donned the armour and these past few days of squeezing his well-fed bulk back into it had been extremely uncomfortable. He’d enjoyed life in the province, commanding the extremely dispersed garrison - which was a task that almost ran itself - while living the good life in the well-appointed city of Narbo and keeping an eye on a number of private investments in shipping and mercantile endeavours and other, less legal sources of extra revenue.
But three days ago, his world had turned upside down as a force of legionaries some seven or eight thousand strong, supported by a sizeable cavalry unit, had arrived, a small knot of noblemen and officers carrying a banner that had made Aprilis’ blood run cold… Gaius Julius Caesar!
By the time the general had dismounted at the forum’s elegant basilica, Aprilis had managed to find his clean toga, brush his hair, dress well, perfume and drag together an honour guard of six of the better turned out men. The general had hardly looked at him as he had stammered out a welcome and announced a huge banquet that he would have prepared in the Proconsul’s honour. He had been rattling off how much of an honour it all was when another of the officers, a hard-looking man of seemingly advanced age for his position, had spoken quietly to Caesar and the general had brushed aside Aprilis’ words.
‘No time for such matters, tribune. Send out messengers to every post your garrison occupies. I want a skeleton force left everywhere. All other men are to bring their full kit as fast as they can and muster on the plain across the river. I want the vast bulk of your command in position within three days, for in four I will be taking them with me.’
And now, three days later, Aprilis was starting to sweat in panic. He had immediately passed the task onto his subordinate, Marcus Aristius, who was always so damned busy and seemed to be far too stiff and military in his manner for such a quiet and peaceful post. To Aristius’ credit, despite the near impossibility of Caesar’s demands, the young, overly-formal prefect had managed to pull in every free man within three-day’s fast ride of Narbo, with all other available troops en route. He would owe Aristius for this, since the man’s efficiency reflected well on the garrison’s commander, and Aprilis had his eyes as always on higher office.
Taking as deep a breath as he could manage trapped under the restrictive cuirass that threatened to break a few ribs with each influx of air, Aprilis presented himself at the door of his own office. The dangerous-looking cavalry officer with the missing fingers at the doorway looked him up and down, noted the absence of blades at his belt, and nodded.
As Aprilis stepped into the room, he was surprised to see a map of Gaul hanging from his wall and piles of tablets and scrolls upon his desk, two officers - the older, mean looking one with the expensive sword at his side, and a young man he had heard might be the noble Brutus - rifling through them. Caesar stood looking at the map, scratching his chin.
‘What of the Ruteni?’
The older officer shrugged. ‘Split down the middle. Half of them have been living in the province for two generations, pay their taxes and live well. The other half are beyond the border, but I suspect harbour the desire for what their kin have. At least, that’s what Aristius seemed to infer.’
Caesar nodded. ‘That route would be the easiest. Priscus certainly seems to be trying to persuade me that is the route to take, circling wide through the lowlands. But I am acutely aware of the need for speed and surprise. By the time we have moved the army halfway through western Gaul, Vercingetorix could be all-powerful. He could have crushed Labienus and the legions and be waiting for us. No. I think it has to be the mountain passes, despite the danger of snow and other problems.
Brutus looked over at the older officer and the two men nodded unspoken thoughts. ‘Fronto and I are in concord, I think, Caesar. We’d rather fall on them unexpected, too. And that’s the shortest route toward the army, too.’
The general finally registered Aprilis’ presence.
‘Ah, tribune. Thank you for your attendance.’ The general strode around the table and smiled - a look that seemed unpleasantly predatory on that serious, aquiline face. ‘I am afraid I am about to take your army away with me. But fear not, for Narbo will be in no danger as I draw the eyes of Gaul with me to the north. However, I am aware that your forces have been spread over a wide area for some time and have had little sight of action for more than a decade. They will have adapted to garrison life well, I’m sure. So I will require their commander on my staff as we march north - a man who knows them and knows how to use them and motivate them while they readjust to life in the field.’
Aprilis felt a cold rock of fear settle in his stomach. To war? Into Gaul? He was too old - too fat and lazy if he were to be truthful - for campaigning in the field. Was Caesar punishing him? Aprilis was fairly sure that among the records on the desk were his unusual financial investments. He realised with cold certainty that Caesar knew about his interests and, if he did, he probably knew about the tax-skimming, the deals with certain notorious locals, and the whole gamut of troubles. He swallowed nervously and spoke in a shaky voice.
‘I… I would be honoured to take command...’
The older officer - Fronto? - rolled his eyes. ‘He doesn’t mean you, porky.’
Relief and confusion mixed with irritation at the reference to his ample shape, but Caesar’s voice cut through. ‘I have taken note of your activity here, Aufridius Aprilis.’
Here it comes. Please don’t have me stoned!
‘A man with your fascinating financial talents is wasted in the field. Aprilis, you are hereby appointed as Questor for the province. Strip off that ridiculous armour and find yourself another office. I want this province to turn an extra ten percent profit under your new position, rising to fifteen in the next year.’
Aprilis almost collapsed with relief and joy. ‘Proconsul, I would be…’
‘But bear in mind that I also want that rather substantial quantity of missing tax to find its way back into the coffers before the month is out.’
Aprilis could do little but nod, still flooded with relief.
‘We will be taking your adjutant, Aristius, who will receive his promotion to tribune in your place. He will command the garrison.’
Had he not been so restricted by the tightness of his armour, Aprilis might have laughed with joyful relief, or jumped in the air. He could hardly wait to tell his wife.
The miserable looking one called Fronto tromped across the floor and slapped a wax tablet in his surprised palm. ‘Your last task as tribune here, Aprilis, will be to acquire everything on this list and have it on carts beyond the river by the end of the day. Tomorrow we march into Gaul.’
Aprilis nodded his understanding. It didn’t matter what was on the list. It the man wanted a pack of elephants or a golden phallus or a bag of hen’s teeth he would do it. He had been given a reprieve and a glorious opportunity all at once, and he would not fail now.
May the gods help Aristius in the company of these eagles in human form. And pity the poor bastard Gauls who got in the way of that army!
* * * * *
The forces of Lucterius had grown beyond his expectation. From the two thousand men who had left Gergovia those weeks ago, he had managed to now field a force that he reckoned to number around eight thousand. And as he trotted his horse along the line of sweating, battle-hungry, optimistic warriors from a dozen tribes combined, he felt once again the pride of striking the initial blow against Rome - bringing war into their territory for the first time in many generations.
But still, the absence of their soldiers niggled him. As they had passed through the last area of upland, which would deposit them on the wide coastal plain a little over ten miles from Narbo, they had passed a Roman villa that hugged the hillside above the narrow valley, protected by a small fort of the usual Roman form. After some debate, Lucterius had decided that the place had to be taken for the army to pass unhindered, despite the trouble that always came with besieging a Roman fort.
But the whole place had fallen with hardly a murmur and, as the laughing warriors had happily looted the place and the villa nearby, Lucterius and Cunorix had performed a quick head count of the garrison. Thirty two men! In a fort clearly constructed for half a thousand and which held one of the few passes from the north right into the heartland of the Roman province. The hair on Lucterius’ arms and the back of his neck had been standing proud and nervous for more than a day now, and every sign that the Romans had withdrawn their forces had set his teeth more on edge. He had slept badly last night, assailed by prophetic dreams of a giant eagle ripping a boar to shreds with its iron talons.
In fact, if he’d not the confidence in his force that he had, he would have turned his army round before they even crossed the border ridge with its scarce-manned tower.
Another mental image of that dream eagle with gleaming talons flashed into his head and he was so busy telling himself to stop being so superstitious and foolish that he almost missed the shouts, and the riders were on him before he’d focused. Three of the scouts - two from his own Cadurci and one of the Ruteni more familiar with the region - were racing back along the rough column of men as though divine Sucellos followed them at a run, swinging his godly hammer.
Lucterius felt his heart catch in his throat.
‘What is it?’ he called to the riders as they slowed to his pace and came alongside. In fact, he had a horrible feeling he knew exactly what it was.
‘You need to see this,’ the Ruteni rider said quietly.
‘And halt the army,’ added his own man.
‘And tell them to be quiet,’ chipped in the third.
His heart pounding in his chest like a racing horse, he nodded to Cunorix and when his favoured warrior approached, he kept his voice low. ‘Have the army halt. Tell them it’s an impromptu leg-rest. But don’t have anyone blow the carnyx, and try keeping the shouting to a minimum.’
The warrior narrowed his eyes, but nodded and went back to the column as Lucterius kicked his horse into speed and raced off in the wake of the three scouts. His heart was still racing with an increasing sense of urgent foreboding as they left the front ranks of their army behind and veered off to the south, climbing the slope to the side of this shallow valley.
This region, to the south of the highlands that ran along the province’s border, consisted of a series of such slopes and valleys running alongside one another like the folds in a rucked blanket. The scouts stopped at the top, keeping in the shade of a small spread of beech trees that were still too bare for comfort, still longing for an end to the chill and the frost. Once they had reached an unspoken agreement, presumably that they were not being observed, the three men rode on down into the next shallow valley, perhaps five hundred paces across, aiming for another small knot of beech trees on the next rise. Lucterius wanted to question them, wanted to confirm what he already suspected, but the scouts were not slowing, and something made him keep from shouting.
Then, scarcely thirty heartbeats later they were approaching the top of the next rise, and the Ruteni scout was reining in behind the trees. The other two joined him and, nervously, their commander pulled up alongside them all.
The bottom fell out of Lucterius’ world as his eyes beheld the scene beyond the rise. An endless sea of iron and bronze helms and mail shirts! Shields of deep red with bull and lightning bolt designs rose and fell in perfect symmetry with every step. Hundred upon hundred upon hundred of the Roman javelins they called pila rose from the mass like the spines of a giant metal hedge pig. And at the far side, a small mass of cavalry. Other soldiers moved in groups here and there - not the heavy legionaries, but other forces that resembled the garrison troops of Narbonensis… the missing garrison!
Lucterius felt that lurch in his chest again and found himself counting the width of the column in men and extrapolating for the whole column, which stretched to the distance ahead and behind.
‘For the love of Taranis!’ he whispered. ‘There are thousands of them!’
‘More than us,’ added one of the scouts.
‘Not by much,’ Lucterius countered. ‘I reckon perhaps two legions, along with the garrison and the cavalry. Perhaps ten thousand men?’
The scout from his own tribe who had remained silent nodded. ‘Roughly ten.’
‘And we have eight thousand.’
Lucterius felt a moment of crucial decision weighing down on him. Eight to ten. But with the element of surprise. How had their scouts not spotted his army? Five Romans to every four of them. Worse odds had been carried in battle, especially with surprise on their side. But at the same time, a veteran legion was a behemoth of destruction. One legionary against one of the Cadurci and Lucterius would put his money on his kinsman every time. But put ten Romans in a line, with their encompassing shields, their pilum volleys and a good commander, and he would hesitate to move with a force even three times their number. It was too risky. He would lose. The garrison was one thing. Two veteran legions was a whole different matter.
His eyes scanned the cavalry and picked out certain figures among them. Yes. The officers, and the flag he had learned was Caesar’s: the bull. The man himself was here and in control of two legions and two more thousand support troops. Rome’s greatest general, who had bested the best.
Lucterius knew himself to be a solid fighter, a popular leader and a reasonably competent general. But men he had considered to be the best the tribes had to offer had pitted themselves against Caesar with the odds on their side and had been utterly, ruthlessly and mercilessly crushed.
No. One thing he was not was an idiot. To continue the campaign now was folly. And Caesar had somehow moved before they were all ready. The snake had already made his play… so quickly! Vercingetorix must be told. Had to be warned, lest he merrily continue his political manoeuvring while the Romans thrashed their way across the land.
‘Back,’ he hissed to the scouts. ‘Get back to the column. Tell them we are turning round and heading north.’
‘They won’t like it.’
‘They don’t have to. They just have to do it. We return to Vercingetorix so that we can field a grander army in the face of the Roman threat. We have missed our chance here. Tell the nobles in the valley to have their men stay as silent as possible, yet to move as though the bear-god was swiping at their backs. Caesar is making for the very pass we came through. If we do not get there first, Caesar will reach the rest of the tribes before us and all is lost. We are in a race for the pass and Vercingetorix’s army is at stake.’
As the three riders, unhappy with their tidings, rode off to move the army back the way they came, Lucterius sat beneath the shade of the beech tree and peered across the valley. The figure that could only be Caesar was pointing ahead and then gesturing out wide with his arm. His companion nodded. Fanning out. The distribution of scouts. Lucterius might feel as though fortune had deserted him, but the fact was: had they been a quarter of an hour later along the valley, the scouts now being ordered to deploy would have found them and battle would have been inevitable. And Lucterius was in no doubt as to how it would have ended.
‘I have no idea how you managed this, proconsul of Rome, but I vow that the next time we meet, I will not flee. Your days here are numbered.’
With a sigh of regret tinged with the urgent need to be away before the Romans came close, he wheeled his horse and raced off back towards the army.
* * * * *
The scout - one of Ingenuus’ cavalry, who had spent his formative years hunting in the hills north of Narbo, was waving, ahead. Fronto nudged Palmatus. ‘Find out what he wants.’
The commander of his guard nodded and kicked his horse, inexpertly, lurching forward with all the equestrian skill of a sick badger. Fronto had come out to the van, the bulk of Caesar’s army following along a quarter of a mile behind. Something about this place was making Fronto twitch, and though he couldn’t confirm it, he was sure that earlier this morning, when they were back in the shallower valleys, he had heard a carnyx blare in the distance. So he and his singulares guard had ridden out front to join up with the advance scouts and check the lie of the land.
In addition to Palmatus and Masgava, he was accompanied by Arcadios the archer, busy singing an old Cretan song in a low, thick, tuneless accent, Quietus - quite the loudest legionary Fronto had ever heard, Numisius, now fully recovered from his broken arm half a year earlier, Aurelius - the superstitious clown, Biorix the engineer, Iuvenalis the artillery expert and Celer - short, swift and far too good at dice to be playing fair. And Samognatos, his Condrusi scout, was out front on the far side of the valley. Ten men remaining of the nineteen he had led into the forest of Arduenna last year.
Aurelius cleared his throat.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Legatus, but my sword palm’s itchin’ like the three-day clap and my neck hair won’t stay flat. Something’s not right here.’
Fronto nodded absently. Normally, he took Aurelius’ feelings with a pinch of salt, despite his own reputation for prophetic feelings, but today he shared every bit of the legionary’s eerie premonition.
‘I agree. It looks like the scouts have found something. Hold tight.’
Palmatus rode back, having discussed something with the scout and the latter disappeared down into the valley, slowly, examining the ground. As the former legionary slowed, Fronto scratched his bristly chin.
‘What news, then?’
‘The strangest. There’s a small garrison fort up there at the valley side. Had a skeleton force of four contubernia in residence, but they’ve been killed. All evidence points to a Gallic attack. Beyond is a villa that appears to have been ravaged too. There’s signs of looting and damage.’
‘Looks like my fears have been well-founded,’ Fronto sighed, glancing side-long at Aurelius, who was shivering and kissing his Fortuna amulet.
‘That’s not the weird thing. He’s found tracks. In most places they’ve been hard to spot, as the ground’s so hard and track-resistant at the moment, but there’s a natural spring near the fort and the ground is kept damp because of it. There are the confusing tracks of a large number of both infantry and cavalry there.’
‘Not a surprise, given the destruction of the garrison. Odd that we’ve not seen whoever’s responsible, though. Which direction do the tracks lead?’
‘That’s the odd thing,’ Palmatus replied quietly. ‘Both. The ones heading north appear to be newer than the ones heading south, which are beneath them.’
‘So a large Gallic force came south into Roman territory, presumably when they discovered that we had withdrawn most of the garrison, and then turned round and left. Whether it’s because they heard about us or they’d merely had their fill of loot, it seems they’ve gone. It can only be a good thing anyway. If they were a large force I wouldn’t fancy pitting this lot against them. We’ve all seen what a full-strength Gallic army can do when their blood’s up, they’re well-rested, and probably battle-hardened. And all we have is eight thousand sons of shopkeepers dressed up like legionaries.’
He took a deep breath.
‘Anyway. Our sights are not set on local tribes and their opportunistic forays. I could go to Caesar with the news, but I can tell you right now he won’t sanction a hunt for them. He has his sights set on the mountain pass over the Cevenna range, behind which the Arverni await. He intends to hit Vercingetorix below the belt and see how he reacts. I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that when the women and children of his warriors are put to the sword.’
‘I don’t like leaving a potential enemy army floating around down here behind us,’ Palmatus muttered.
‘Nor do I. But we’re playing close to time here. We need to be over the mountains and among the Arverni before word reaches Vercingetorix that we are in his lands.’
He looked up at the hillside above. This valley was deep enough, but it would pale into insignificance when they reached the Cevenna. Priscus had already told him horror stories about the lofty passes.
‘Ah, shit. Here we go again.’
* * * * *
Cavarinos wiped the faint drizzle from his face, ground his teeth and let his gaze slip to his brother who rode alongside, unconcerned. Critognatos was more stubborn than any mule - smelled a little like one, though - and the almost continual alternating between tiresome argument and brooding silence between the pair had led to their escort of two dozen Arverni warriors from their home at Nemossos tactfully riding some forty paces behind, almost out of range of the bickering.
It was not unknown for brothers to argue, even rabidly, Cavarinos supposed, but the years had brought only a deepening of their disagreements and a widening of the rift that had begun to form between them even as children. It was a situation that their mother had bemoaned until the day the flux had taken her and that their father had demanded repeatedly that they repair.
Both brothers had made their attempts over the years to stitch that tear in the fabric of the family, but every attempt had failed, and had often widened the gap. Cavarinos had repeatedly tried to find common ground that they could use to lay the foundations of a new relationship, but inevitably, Critognatos would bring it back to being the will of some god or spirit, which Cavarinos simply could not accept. The gods may or may not exist, but he knew in his heart that it was he, and not some invisible, intangible force that widened or narrowed their rift. His oafish brother had, in fairness, made his own attempts at healing, but they inescapably revolved around something or other that Critognatos loved, which was almost always something abhorrent to his brother.
And so the rift divided them and, it seemed, would always do so.
Cavarinos took another preparatory breath and launched once more into his point.
‘The thing is, brother, that while we were given two orders and told which of us should pursue each goal, we are now many leagues away from Vercingetorix and the rest, and no one will ever know if I stir up the tribes and you go hunting magical acorns or whatever from the druids.’
Critognatos flashed that familiar look at him. ‘You heard the king. It is the will of Ogmios that you find the curse.’
‘And it is the will of me that you find the curse.’
‘No. It must be done the way the gods will it. Would you deny and defy Ogmios and risk your all? I will not.’
Cavarinos, still grinding away at his molars, turned his attention to the road before them, and the oppidum at the end of that short stretch of dirt and gravel. Vellaunoduno rose upon a low hill, augmented with heavy earth-backed ramparts. On a rising spur, the western, northern and eastern slopes were high and powerful, while a long, gentle gradient led to the south gate, where the road wound in through the defences. It then disappeared among the packed structures that poured wood smoke up into the grey sky, undampened by the blanket of fine mizzle. The gate lay open, though four warriors stood on the ramparts beside it, ready to slam and bar it should the need suddenly arise.
The brothers approached in cantankerous silence, their horses’ hooves the only noise in the oppressive atmosphere. The guards threw out a quick request for them to identify themselves and then permitted them entrance to the oppidum without further question, charging them to keep their escort under control and that no weapons be drawn, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of the magistrate’s justice.
The town, one of many such that belonged to the Senones, was dirty and chaotic, houses packed tightly together, the streets so muddy and filled with ordure that the cobbles only showed in rare glimpses.
‘It’s a sign,’ Critognatos hissed suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence as he made repeated warding motions. Cavarinos followed his gaze to see a stone slab rising beside a blacksmith’s forge, the figure of a squat, wide man with long bushy hair, a great club and heavy cross-hatched trousers carved upon it. Cavarinos could not help but notice that Ogmios here was depicted with neither beard nor moustache. It seemed odd. No facial hair at all almost universally meant either a child or a Roman. On his occasional trips into Narbonensis and to the Greek port of Massilia, Cavarinos had seen their great temples to Hercules who was also Herakles. It occurred to him that Ogmios was almost exactly the same, although shorter, more deformed and most definitely more ugly. If the tribes were going to honour their gods, he found it ridiculous that the druids advocated the raising of these hideous depictions, while the hated enemy to the south made their Hercules realistic and handsome, painted to be so lifelike, and enthroned him in temples that were grander than any royal palace in any of the tribes of what they called Gaul.
Sometimes, Cavarinos could not help in his gut wondering what the tribes would be capable of given the learning, the support and the friendship of Rome instead of this interminable conflict.
‘It is not a sign. It is a lump of stone.’
‘This is Ogmios, brother,’ Critognatos snarled. ‘Do not deny the clear sign. You speak of defying his will and immediately we find him watching you. He has gifted us a great gift, dropping it from the clouds into the hands of the shepherds that we may use it to finally destroy the Romans!’
Unless Ogmios is actually Hercules and all this is an immense and sick joke upon us all, Cavarinos muttered under his breath. He glanced across at his brother and noted the look of sheer devoted nervousness in his eyes. The truth hit him then: it mattered not whether Ogmios was the great god, or just their name for the Roman club-bearer, or even a figment of their imagination. It mattered not whether this curse was a powerful weapon sent by a vengeful god, or a magic artefact crafted by the druids in secret and accounted that of a god, or just drivel hacked into a stone by a madman.
No.
What mattered was belief.
Critognatos was so consumed by his belief that if a druid told him to walk off a cliff because Taranis asked him to, his brother would leap into the abyss with joy in his heart. Faith was a powerful force. And his brother was far from alone in this belief. Indeed the vast bulk of the army of Vercingetorix and the tribes that supplied those forces were every bit as prey to superstition as Critognatos.
The curse didn’t have to kill. It didn’t have to be infused with the power of a god. So long as the army believed it did, they would revere it and fight all the harder, filled with courage and sureness by the mystical.
His brother was right about one thing. Cavarinos did have to retrieve that tablet, and wield it, so that the army’s courage was bolstered.
‘Very well,’ he said, bowing faintly to the stone, despite the fact that the act made him feel foolish. ‘I will go and hunt the curse of Ogmios in the warrens and secret places of the shepherds. And you will raise the tribes to Vercingetorix’s cause.’
His brother nodded his agreement.
‘But,’ Critognatos replied, ‘you should not return to the army when you find it. Such a sacred gift is too precious to risk on the road south alone. Wait until I am finished in my task, and we will all travel back together, with our warriors to protect you.’
‘Agreed.’
‘We shall not be more than three weeks before we are ready to return. Any longer than that and Vercingetorix will find himself committed and we risk the Romans finding out and committing their own armies in the field. We need to be back by then, along with whatever forces we can raise.’
Again, Cavarinos nodded. ‘Agreed. Then we shall meet here in three weeks. I may be here earlier, of course, but I will keep the tablet secure until you join me.’
In one of those rarest of occasions, his brother cracked his miserable face with a smile and reached out to grip Cavarinos’ hand.
‘Good luck, brother.’
Cavarinos found himself shaking the hand in surprise. ‘And to you.’