Chapter 5

 

Close to Aedui lands, by the river Liger.

 

Vercingetorix wiped the chill drizzle from his face and watched the lead elements of the other army break off from the main force, as they descended from the low hillside and the protection of the trees that covered it.

‘Do we sound the carnyx?’ Vergasillaunus asked quietly. Behind them the Arverni and their allied forces spread out across the plain and back as far as the river, where they were still funnelling across the bridge in the miserable damp blanket of grey.

The Arvernian king shook his head. ‘They are riding out to talk, whoever they are. Besides, while they are a large force, we are larger by far. They cannot think to attack us. Wait until we can identify their insignia.’

The two men sat on their heavy steeds at the head of the vast sprawl of warriors, watching intently. ‘What standards do you see?’ the king murmured to his cousin, a man renowned for, among other things, impressive eyesight. Vergasillaunus squinted into the obfuscating mist, shaking his head. ‘Just the usual boars, I think… though… wait.’ He rubbed his eyes and squinted more. ‘Crosses and the one-eyed head.’

‘Cadurci!’

Despite the realisation that the approaching army was a force of allies rather than enemies, they were equally unexpected, and their arrival could portend nothing good. The Cadurci were supposed to be busy freeing the tribes of Roman Narbonensis now.

‘Come,’ the king said, and kicked his horse into motion, trotting down the sodden slope with his cousin quickly coming alongside, some of the nobles and chiefs of his army following close behind, uninvited. Some quarter of a mile away, as the two groups of riders converged on a small stand of trees, the opposing commander and his companion rode ahead to meet them. The fine, cold drizzle filtered down from the leaden clouds above creating a grey world that chilled the bones, and the general atmosphere matched the mood of Lucterius of the Cadurci, judging by his expression.

‘Narbo remains unconquered?’ Vercingetorix was keeping a tight control of his temper, his cousin realised. The king was not a man given to outbursts or fits of uncontrolled rage, but the two things he despised, even above failure, were treachery and cowardice. That the Cadurci might be here, apparently unharmed, smacked of one of the other.

Lucterius bowed his head, but his eyes when he straightened again showed signs of neither treason nor fear. The leader of the Cadurci simply sighed.

‘My king, I bring dire news.’

‘Go on.’

‘Despite all our precautions and every care that we all took, something has gone wrong. We arrived in the Roman province to find Caesar there, mobilising the local garrison and with what appeared to be two well-equipped legions. They were already moving north when we came across them in the foothills.’

‘You fought them?’ Vergasillaunus frowned. The Cadurci and their allies looked like a strong, untouched army.

‘No. Even strong as we were, we would almost certainly have lost to ten thousand Roman legionaries. I decided it would be better to bring the army north once more and add our strength to yours, making sure that you had all the information. We would be no use to you spread across a southern hillside feeding the crows.’

Vercingetorix nodded slowly. He did not look happy, but the spark of anger had gone from his eyes. ‘You erred towards caution,’ the king murmured. ‘This is not a trait of prime value in a warrior, but it is essential in a leader. You did the right thing. I am surprised that Caesar is so well informed and so quick to move. I would give a gold torc to find out how he learned of our activities and how he reached Narbo without us finding out. The Romans do not like to begin their wars before their festival of weapons, and that is still months away. Caesar is as slippery and unpredictable as ever.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Did the Romans see you?’

‘As far as I can tell they were not aware of us at any point. As soon as we found them, we returned through the hills ahead of them. We moved west, past Albiga, and returned by the low, easy route, but word from the mountain tribes is that Caesar moved east and north, to cross the Cevenna passes.’

Vergasillaunus shrugged. ‘Then we have nothing to worry over, and the man is a fool. He cannot hope to cross those mountains in winter. His army will be bogged down in snow and forced back to Narbo.’

The king fixed him with an appraising look and shook his head. ‘He will have succeeded. A man who has managed to move so early and in force when we have done all we can to prevent it is not a man to be put off by a mountain pass, even in winter. No, Caesar did not stop, nor did he pause. If you saw him make for the Cevenna, he will be past it now.’

‘But that would put him in our own lands?’ murmured Vergasillaunus.

‘Yes. There are easier routes to the north and to his army. If he attempted the Cevenna passes in winter, then the Arverni have been his target from the start. He has taken a force of two legions to ravage our lands while we tarry here.’

A voice from behind burst out, carrying tones of panic. ‘Two legions at work in our land?’

Vercingetorix turned a rather dangerous look on the outspoken man, a Vellavi chieftain of the oppidum of Condate, subservient to the Arverni, but whose town lay at the northern end of the main passes across that range. Probably the place where Caesar descended the mountains. Condate was likely gone already. The chieftain apparently failed to notice the nuances in his king’s expression, since he spoke again without pause.

‘All out warriors are in the north, here to fight for you. Our people are undefended!’

Vercingetorix closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, the steel they carried made the chieftain recoil. ‘Caesar is trying to manoeuvre us. He is poking a sore tooth to see how we will respond.’

‘But we must go to their aid?’ the man pleaded, raising mumbles of agreement from some of the other leaders around him.

‘Abandon our gathering of armies here? Leave the Aedui to slide back into their Rome-ish ways? That is exactly what Caesar wishes. Can you not see?’

‘But…’

‘No.’ Vercingetorix turned to Lucterius. ‘When was this? When you last saw their army?’

‘Fifteen days. Perhaps sixteen.’

Vercingetorix shook his head again. ‘Caesar is not there anyway, now.’

‘He must be…’

‘No. Caesar has left men there to tempt us south, to break off our work here. And you know what will happen if we race to Arverni lands to help our uncles and cousins defend their farms?’

Vergasillaunus nodded. ‘While we are there, Caesar will rejoin his armies and untie all the bonds we have formed with the northern tribes, weakening us.’

The king ran his fingers down his moustaches, squeezing out trickles of rainwater. ‘Caesar is a clever man, so we must be more so. Whatever he wishes us to do, we avoid doing it. We must not fall into his traps. If he is trying to draw us south, then we must stay here and continue our work, but keep careful watch on what happens around us. The Aedui, I am convinced, are the key to power in the region. They are the largest tribe, even without the numerous others under their protection, and their support may tip the scales for either Caesar or us. We must have the Aedui, so I cannot abandon this campaign, even for the sake of our villages. There is more at stake here than our own tribe; we have to look at the whole picture, and not just see a corner that is important to us.’

He turned to the outspoken chief from Condate.

‘Take your men back south… no more than a thousand, though. Protect who you can, save who you can, and take stock of what you find there, then send a messenger to us with your answers. You will not find Caesar there, of that I am sure. I doubt, in fact, that you will find a solid veteran force there. This army in our lands is a phantom Caesar raises to panic us. Old men or young recruits in shiny armour.’

As the relieved-looking chieftain nodded and turned to ride back to his own warriors, the king sighed. ‘Settle your men in with the army, Lucterius. We have brought the Bituriges to our standards and have harried other small tribes. Now we go to destroy the Boii at Gorgobina and bring the Aedui’s nerves to new heights. Soon Caesar will be upon us, and I want that troublesome tribe with us and not with him.’

 

* * * * *

 

Vellaunoduno was unimpressive, to Fronto’s eye. In the six years he had fought through Gaul, he had seen the most powerful fortresses the tribes had to offer, from the towering chiselled mountain of Aduatuca, through the treacherous coastal strongholds of the Veneti, to the swamp-ridden islands of the Menapii. Vellaunoduno had walls of reasonable quality, but it sloped gently downhill from north to south, with even the north only protected by a gentle grassy incline, and the south gate undefended by any natural obstacle.

‘We could take that place in an hour,’ he muttered, shivering in the cold breeze.

Carbo, the primus pilus of the Tenth legion and trusted officer of Fronto’s, grinned. ‘Give the word, legate and I’ll turn the place upside down for you. It’d be a damn site better than this.’

He indicated the work going on all around them, as legionaries from eight legions busily cut turf sods, worked on taking the ditch down to at least waist level and used the soil to create the rampart behind it. Atop the completed sections of the mound, other legionaries were using timber and wattle to weave strong fences and nailing them in place to posts. Here and there, men were even constructing low towers to sit above the fence, affording a good view of the oppidum and its surroundings. The work was going on in a wide circle that surrounded Vellaunoduno, leaving just under a scorpion-shot between the two opposing walls.

Fronto sighed. ‘No. Sadly, we cannot. Caesar gave his orders. Circumvallation. He wants the oppidum undamaged for its stores.’

‘I can’t help but wonder what the Gauls are thinking, sir. They’re Senones, and that means they’re theoretically our allies, yet we pitch up here with eight legions and build siege works? And what happens when the bloody-minded buggers inside decide it’s better to burn the granaries than let us have the grain?’

Fronto nodded. The same thoughts had occurred to him. ‘There are rumours that the western Senones are sending warriors south to Vercingetorix, and when we arrived, they shut the gate. No welcome party generally means you’re not welcome. And as to the granaries, we’ll have to trust to their sense of self-preservation. Currently we have no reason to put them to the sword. We are not officially at war with them, after all. Caesar will grant them favourable terms in return for supplies.’

He desperately hoped so. When they had arrived at Agedincum two days ago, Fronto had gone with Priscus to examine the supply situation at the main camp. Labienus had showed them the granaries and storehouses, and they had been pitifully thin. Normally, when faced with such an issue, the commanders of the winter quarters would rely upon sending out centuries of men and foraging in the surrounding lands, but it seemed a Boii scout who had been working with Cita at Cenabum had survived to bring the legions news of the Carnute attack a few months back, and in response, Labienus had reined in all such forage parties, keeping the legions together and on high alert. The result had been low stores, but six well-prepared and alert legions, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Indeed, Labienus had told them of reports from native scouts of Carnute and Parisi warbands prowling the region in the hope of picking off any such small extended foray.

Caesar had rallied from the news, sending out messengers to the Aedui at Bibracte and the Boii at Gorgobina, reminding them of their allegiance and asking that they send whatever supplies they could spare. Still, Fronto had noted, Caesar had lost no time in fielding the army and making for the grain-filled oppidum of Vellaunoduno, leaving only two legions at Agedincum in reserve.

The centurion nodded wearily. ‘The lads are itching for a fight, sir.’

‘I suspect that by the autumn they’ll be sick of the sight of blood, Carbo. Somewhere south of here is an army of Gauls bigger than anything we’ve faced in this land so far. And some time in the next few weeks or months we’re going to have to bring them to battle.’

‘It’ll be a big one, sir.’

Fronto regarded the bald, shining pink pate of the stocky centurion and nodded. ‘It’ll end all this and settle the place one way or another, that’s for sure. By the time this season’s over half the population of Gaul of fighting age will be howed up in burial mounds, be they Gaul or Roman.’ He shrugged off the depressing thought and nodded to the growing rampart. ‘How long will the circumvallation take?’

Carbo shrugged. ‘The mound and ditch will be in place by nightfall… benefit of eight legions’ manpower. Another day for the fences, towers and gates. Then there’s the lilia pits and the like. Two days, though in all.’

A nod.

‘Doesn’t look like much, does it?’ muttered Palmatus, arriving at the completed mound that overlooked the south western corner and standing beside his commander. The singulares remained standing at ease close to the rear of the slope, ready to move should their commander require it, and watching the rest of the army labouring with the satisfaction of the excused-duty.

‘No,’ the legate replied. ‘But from here you can see why it’s important.’

‘Why’s that?’

Fronto pointed over the enemy ramparts at the sloping town within. ‘See up near the top, past that two-storey place with the red tiled roof? There are four extremely long roofs?’

‘I see them?’

‘They’re granaries.’

Palmatus whistled through his teeth. ‘They’re bigger than the ones in a legionary fortress.’

‘That they are. Vellaunoduno’s pretty much at the centre of the Senones’ grain-farming region, like Cenabum for the Carnutes. As such, it’s a hub, which supplies other towns within the tribe. There’ll be enough grain in those four buildings to keep us in the field for a month or more.’

‘Hopefully it won’t take that long to finish the job,’ Palmatus shrugged. ‘The general word is that the Gallic army is massing less than a hundred miles south of here. A bit of careful manoeuvring and we could bring it to open battle in days. Weeks at most.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘Remember: we’ve met their leader. He and Caesar might well be a match for one another. Neither of them is going to commit on unfavourable ground, so there might be a lot of dancing around before anyone gets to bloody their sword. No idea what Vercingetorix is doing down there, but he’s close to the Aedui, and after last winter I’m not quite sure how far I trust our old friends any more. And as for Caesar: well he’s concentrating on breaking off the man’s northern allies and containing him. Could be a while before we put sword to throat in open field.’ The pair fell silent and perused the oppidum’s walls, pulling their cloaks tighter for warmth. None of the men were used to campaigning so early in the year. It was unnatural.

‘Look at that pair. Daring buggers, eh?’ Fronto and Palmatus followed Carbo’s pointing finger and picked out two men standing atop the walls of Vellaunoduno with their fists on their hips, regarding the Roman engineers sealing them in. The rest of the warriors atop the walls had either pulled back down inside the city or were crouched behind the parapet, ever since the Roman artillerists had loosed a hundred pot-shots at the walls just to determine range and the position for the line of the ditch. The Roman defences were safely out of Gallic bowshot, but a scorpion was still accurate enough with a good artillerist behind it to pick a man from that wall.

‘They’re just watching us, the cheeky bastards,’ Palmatus said.

‘Let ‘em,’ Fronto said. ‘Might help with lowering their morale.’

‘An extra corpse or two would help more,’ Palmatus snorted.

‘They’re wise to us, though, since the test volleys’ replied Carbo. ‘Any time the crews move the scorpions, the buggers go into hiding.’

Palmatus gave a nasty grin and turned, looking back down the earth bank to where Fronto’s bodyguard were assembled, supping from water flasks, exempt from all the manual labour going on around them.

‘Arcadios? Get up here.’

The swarthy Cretan scrambled up the bank, his bow across his back and a leather case of arrows at his waist. He saluted Fronto and Carbo and nodded to Palmatus. ‘Sir?’

‘I’ve seen you put a point through a torc at almost a hundred paces. Could you hit a man on that wall?’

Arcadios narrowed his eyes and squinted through the dreary air. ‘It’s more like a hundred and sixty paces. Maybe a hundred and seventy.’ He sucked a finger and held it aloft. ‘And there’s a more-than-moderate breeze. It’s possible, but I’d have to be very lucky.’

‘Be lucky, then,’ grinned Palmatus.

The three Roman officers stood and held their breath as Arcadios tested the wind once more, took a long moment to examine the shot, then bent forward, nocked an arrow, and slowly straightened, releasing the shaft as he reached the apex in a smooth move and with no pause. His aim had already taken place before he reached for the arrow.

‘Nice shot,’ whispered Fronto as they watched the arrow arc up into the air, on target for the two men, who might well be expecting pot-shots from the scorpions, but would not be anticipating an arrow.

Then, just past the apex, as the shaft began its descent and picked up speed, a sudden gust wafted it and the missile moved slightly off-target. The three officers sighed with regret as the arrow passed between the two Gauls and plummeted out of sight within the town behind them.

‘Pretty good,’ Fronto smiled. ‘They might not be hurt, but I’ll bet they both shat themselves!’

The four Romans on the rampart laughed.

 

* * * * *

 

Cavarinos saw the arrow only as it plummeted out of the misty grey, and he was suddenly grateful for the chill wind he had been complaining about all morning and which might well have been the only reason the shaft passed half an arm’s length from his head rather than straight through his eye. Damn, that was lucky!

The arrow thudded into the compacted earth of the street behind them.

As Critognatos turned to look back at the fallen missile, Cavarinos was impressed at the lack of concern on his brother’s face, but then put that down not so much to implacability and strength of character as to lack of imagination and not being bright enough to panic.

‘Our timing leaves a great deal to be desired,’ he sighed as he watched the Romans working hard. Critognatos had apparently been quite successful at stirring the local tribes and had been at Vellaunoduno for several days. Cavarinos had arrived late last night from his foray into the Carnute druid woods. And this morning the assembled might of Rome had hoved into view through the trees. Cavarinos had cursed himself for agreeing to break his fast on a hearty meal before they left. Had they just departed at dawn they would have been long gone before Caesar had arrived.

‘The Senones are cowards,’ Critognatos spat. ‘They took their oath to Vercingetorix, but the moment Caesar appears, they all quiver and shake.’

‘They hold for now. But they must capitulate soon, brother. They will all die otherwise.’

‘At least they will die for a cause.’

‘And we will die with them,’ reminded Cavarinos. ‘A peaceful solution that sets us on our way is advantageous.’

‘Coward!’

Cavarinos rounded on his brother. ‘Don’t be a fool. You know I’m no coward. But the answer is not always in drawing a sword and running naked, screaming, at the enemy!’

‘You have that curse?’

‘Yes.’ Cavarinos took a step back, his eyes narrowing. The value in the tablet was as a talisman to rally the men. Not in using, only to discover it was as useless as he felt certain it was. ‘I don’t know when I should use it, but the druids said ‘when the boar and the eagle were struggling with a sword or something. I don’t think this counts.’

Critognatos slammed him in the shoulder and pointed out over the no-man’s-land.

‘Do you see a figure over there, behind their defences, on a white horse, with the red cloak?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s almost certainly Caesar. That’s what they say: he wears a red cloak and rides a white horse.’

‘And if it isn’t? If we waste this thing? No. The value of this curse is in showing it to the army and carrying it with us.’

‘Use it on Caesar!’

‘No.’

‘Then use it on one of them!’ He pointed at the small knot of Romans on the mound and, ignoring his brother’s continued badgering, Cavarinos peered at the men. A large figure had now joined them: a big, ebony-skinned man. Cavarinos felt a jolt. The clever Roman from Bibracte last year. He had had a black-skinned warrior with him. It was too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.

‘We have to get out of Vellaunoduno and back to the army. We cannot do that by attempting to use the walls to defeat an army more than forty thousand strong with a few thousand frightened locals. We have to see this to a peaceful solution.’

‘There will be more than a few thousand, brother.’

‘What?’

‘My embassy to the tribes was successful. Upwards of ten thousand warriors are leaving their lands and heading south for the army.’

‘They’re hardly likely to all come through here, you idiot. And even if they did, and they all got the urge to fight straight away, that would still only make us one to about three or four in numbers. Nowhere near enough.’

‘How the king ever came to put you in command of warriors I will never understand,’ Critognatos spat and, turning, stomped off back down the slope and into the town.’

‘Idiot.’

Cavarinos allowed his gaze to linger for a long moment on the small group of Romans, including the dark-skin and the officer atop the wall, and then the figure with the white horse and the red cloak crossed the camp and came to join them. Despite his personal misgivings and his flat disbelief that the burden he carried held any true power, Cavarinos found himself fingering the edges of the curse tablet in the leather case at his belt.

‘No. A peaceful solution, for now…’

 

* * * * *

 

The sanctuary of the god Borvo and the goddess Damona thrummed with the collective worry of two hundred throats. Consisting of a portico of heavy timber posts supporting a sloping tiled roof, only one side of the square structure rose above a single storey, and it was from the balcony on this section that the magistrate of Vellaunoduno, accompanied by the most notable residents and a white-clad druid, had asked the crowd to hush.

Cavarinos and Critognatos sat on the driver’s seat of a large cart at the far end, above the heads of the crowd. The pair had hardly exchanged a civil word since their argument on the walls, yet sat together largely for the security that granted among a foreign tribe.

‘The Romans have made no demands,’ the magistrate repeated. ‘They arrived and besieged us. We have the choice now.’

He paused for a moment as the general hum of the crowd intruded, and when it subsided, he continued. ‘We can see this as an open act of war and assume that their commander has nothing in mind but the conquest of our city and the impounding of our grain to feed their hungry legions. Or we can see it as a cautious reaction from a people who now know that much of the land has risen against them and cannot simply presume us to be allies. After all, while they cannot know that we have taken the oath for the Arverni king, they can hardly be sure we have not.’

Again, the hubbub arose. Cavarinos sat patiently. Even over the din in this place, he could hear the distant sounds of hammering as legionaries worked in the darkness by the light of flaring torches to complete the barrier surrounding the oppidum. The magistrate waited for the lull once more, and then spoke again.

‘You people are the nobles, the land owners, the free artisans and workers. It is to you that I turn, for the way forward to me is clouded and obscure. Segomaros here represents the druids, and it is his council that we defend this place to the last and deny the Romans any succour, including our grain.’

‘He would torch the grain?’ one of the crowd called out incredulously.

‘Would you feed the Romans?’ shouted another with an audible sneer.

‘Tarvos here,’ the man went on, indicating a warrior who physically lived up to his name - the bull - ‘would see us come to terms with the Romans and buy passage from the city with our grain. He would see our warriors join the Arverni army at any cost.’

‘And what about the children?’ shouted a woman. ‘If the Romans take our grain and the warriors leave to join the Arverni, the rest will starve!

‘And this is what we are here to debate,’ announced the magistrate patiently.

Cavarinos listened to half a dozen more shouts and finally rose from the wagon seat, towering above all, bar those few on the balcony.

‘If you fight here to the death, what fate do you expect for your children? Anything better than starvation? Romans are not like the tribes across the Rhenus. They will take slaves when they win a battle, yes, but they are almost always open to negotiation. They might be the enemy but they value life and they understand the value of life. Submitting to them might be ignominious for you, but you would be alive and, I daresay, free into the bargain; and few Romans I have met will watch the children starve if you have willingly aided them.’

A murmur of agreement and support sussed across the crowd, and Cavarinos could see the magistrate nodding his appreciation of the comment, albeit coming from a foreigner. Sometimes it took an outsider to bring sense.

His heart sank as the bench weight shifted, warning him that Critognatos had risen behind him.

‘Many hundreds - thousands even - of warriors of the Meldi, the Parisi and the Catelauni tribes will be passing here as they rush to join the Arverni army. They will not pass by here and see you beneath the Roman yoke. You need only hold until they come.’

Idiot!

With a malicious streak flashing through his heart, Cavarinos gave the side of the cart a good hard thump with his heel and was rewarded by the sound of his brother falling with a crash behind him as the cart shuddered. Despite the gravity of the situation, those nearby chuckled at the sight and Cavarinos smiled. Good. His brother’s credibility was waning.

‘Those warriors will not pause on their journey to engage an army many times their size, even for your grain. Your only hope of survival is to parlay. I know these Romans. I have met one of them myself before now, and he is a reasonable man. Favourable terms are within your grasp. I beg you for the love of reason not to throw away your lives and those of your families for a prideful gesture.’

There was a strange silence, and Cavarinos could feel the hearts of the crowd wavering. He almost had them. After all, no one ever wanted to fight for no reason. A voice cut across the crowd amid the distant sounds of hammering and sawing and commands called in Latin. The druid on the balcony.

‘Conciliation with the Romans? A strange stand to hear taken by one of Vercingetorix’s Arverni?’

I wonder how well connected the druids truly are? He wondered.

‘You know me? You know who I am?’

‘You are Critognatos of the Arverni.’

Hmmm…

‘Not quite, druid. I am Cavarinos of the Arverni.’ He was able to see the look of surprise pass across the druid’s face even at this distance. He could almost imagine the facial tic appearing on the man’s eye. ‘I am on my way back to the king with a prize.’ He tapped the leather bag at his belt meaningfully.

The crowd were looking back and forth between foreigner and druid, and Cavarinos, finding it hard not to grin, pictured the man’s brain trying to work out how he could back-track over his own advice in favour of the man who carried the curse of Ogmios. The druid might be willing to sacrifice a whole Senone town on the altar of anti-Roman pride, but his sacred nick-nacks were another thing entirely.

‘You know one of them?’ the druid said, his face shrewd and calculating.

‘I believe so. I believe I met one alongside Vercingetorix last year.’ If only I could remember his name…

‘You would be willing to mediate on behalf of these people?’

Cavarinos smiled beatifically. ‘I would.’

‘You cowardly traitor,’ snarled Critognatos behind him, at about knee level on his way back up. Cavarinos turned to look across the crowd, using the movement to mask a sharp kick backwards into his brother’s belly, keeping him down.

‘I will speak with them at dawn, if you wish it,’ he announced.

 

* * * * *

 

Fronto grinned as the dusky maiden clambered off him and began to pour him a drink of finest Opimian. ‘More wine, darling?’

He nodded happily.

‘More hairy arse, darling?’

For a moment, Fronto nodded happily, then his brow creased into a frown.

‘What did you say, my dove?’

‘I said get your hairy arse out of that bed before I throw a bucket of water over you… sir!’

Fronto’s eyes snapped open, his irises contracting at the sudden intrusion of light. Images of dusky maidens retreated into his subconscious and left him with the less-than-pretty picture of Priscus standing over him, waving a vine stick in a suggestive manner.

‘What… where?’

‘You’re needed. One of the Senones has come out the city alone asking to speak to the Roman commander with the black-skinned friend. Didn’t take an awful feat of deduction to work out who that was. You’ve been chosen to parlay for some reason. Get dressed quickly. Dress uniform too, none of your fighting kit.’ Priscus sniffed. ‘At least for once you don’t smell like either an amphora or a latrine.’

‘You’re too kind, Gnaeus.’ Where were his singulares? They were supposed to be guarding his tent, not letting random folk in, even if those random folk were his friends. His gaze wandered to the tent door, where he was irked to see the grinning faces of Aurelius and Numisius, enjoying the scene.

‘Moments only,’ Priscus grunted, drawing his gaze again. ‘Get outside.’ Without a further word, the prefect retreated, leaving Fronto feeling a little confused and forlorn.

‘Dress uniform?’

He tried, without a great deal of either care or success, to think where among all the bags and boxes his best clean kit would be. He knew that almost every other officer would have ten different sets and their body slave would have it ready before they even knew they needed it. Fronto had never been a lover of having such a servant attend him in the field. They were always too active too early in the morning, waking you up before you wanted to surface.

Taking a brief sniff of yesterday’s tunic, he shrugged and pulled it on, quickly followed by his subarmalis with the leather pteruges decorated at the tips, his socks and boots. He left the twin figurines on the thongs around his neck out and in the open… if he was to parlay, a little luck might be useful. A moment later, he leaned out of the door.

‘Masgava, can you help me?’

The big Numidian nodded and entered, lifting the front and back plates of his cuirass and strapping them on. The knotted ribbon of command followed, and then the sword on the baldric. As the former gladiator unfurled the slightly creased red cloak and fastened it around his commander’s shoulders, Fronto pulled on his helmet, noting with dismay the way the crest sagged as though it needed the attentions of the dusky maiden from his dream.

He might not look like a consul or a hero, but he did look like a soldier, and that would have to be enough.

By the time he was stretching his legs outside, Masgava had his singulares formed up and at attention. Ten, including the officers. More than enough.

‘Come on then, lads; let’s go see what the local nutcase has to say.’

Despite the immense size of the Roman camp, the journey was straight and quick, the Tenth being one of the legions closest to the south gate of the oppidum. In a few long moments, he was passing through the opening in the half-formed wattle fence.

His interest was immediately piqued. He had been at many such parlays in the past six years, and they were always conducted by some high noble festooned in gold accoutrements, surrounded by his best warriors and usually with a few carnyxes issuing their deflating-bovine sounds. Here, one man sat on a horse and, while he was well-dressed and well equipped - partially in stolen Roman equipment, Fronto noticed - he looked more warrior than politician. And he was alone, and unserenaded.

‘Identify yourself,’ Fronto called as he closed on the man.

‘I am called Cavarinos. I am authorised by the magistrate of Vellaunoduno to agree terms, on the condition that they are not harmful to the Senones, who are, as you know, oath-bound to Caesar, and consider this siege a breach of etiquette and a shameful act for an ally.’

Fronto grinned.

‘Alright, Cavarinos. How do you know who I am?’

‘I do not,’ the Gaul replied calmly, though Fronto thought he spotted a strange touch of recognition there. ‘You are the officer whose man almost put an arrow through me yesterday afternoon.’

Fronto’s grin became a laugh. ‘Hope you had spare trousers, eh?’

Strangely, the Gaul chuckled back with genuine humour. ‘It was a magnificent shot, given the conditions. I would know your name, Roman?’

‘My name is Fronto. Marcus Falerius Fronto, legatus of the Tenth legion. And the big dark skinned fellow you spotted was one of my two guard commanders - Masgava.’ The Numidian bowed his head. ‘And the other is Palmatus, here.’ Another nod. ‘Now the pleasantries are out if the way, shall we talk business?

‘Your general has come for the grain.’

‘Astute.’

‘I am willing to give him four parts in every five. The rest, which should fit on six carts, will remain with the citizens of Vellaunoduno.’

‘How generous of you.’

‘Yes,’ Cavarinos smiled, ‘I realise that you could take it all, but not without a fight. And it might just get burned in the process. You know how we Gauls can be when cornered. Four fifths free of trouble. And one more thing: the freedom for every citizen to leave unmolested, or stay in their homes and continue to work while Rome sets up its depot here. This is not unreasonable for a free depot full of food, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

Fronto nodded. ‘To me. Not to Caesar. He would have other conditions.’

‘Why am I parlaying with you if you cannot agree terms?’

Fronto shrugged. ‘You asked for me, not me for you. And I do not need to consult Caesar. I know what he would ask, and can agree terms. He will want your tribe disarmed. He will want to extend the four fifths to cover all other stored food and extant livestock. And he will want hostages to ensure continued peace - say four hundred...’

Cavarinos seemed to consider this, and then took a deep breath.

‘My counter offer is this: Nine tenths of all foodstuffs and livestock. Those who leave the city unmolested may keep their weapons - the countryside is a dangerous place these days - but those who choose to stay will disarm. And sixty hostages, to be chosen by the townsfolk.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I trust I have your word that they will be well-treated?’

‘Unless the Senones suddenly rise up, yes.’

Again, the Gaul pursed his lips and then straightened. ‘These terms are agreeable to you, Legatus Fronto?’

‘They are, Cavarinos.’

‘Give me long enough to explain to the magistrate, and I will be back in due course.’

Fronto nodded. ‘You have until noon. That is plenty of time.’

The man smiled and wheeled his horse, riding back towards the gate. Palmatus and Fronto exchanged a look. ‘That was painless,’ smiled Masgava, giving the signal for the singulares to stand at ease.

‘More is going on here than meets the eye,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘He was wearing a silver serpent armband. He was no Senone warrior. He was Arverni.’

Palmatus scratched his chin. ‘Important, too. I swear I saw him last year when we were in that inn at Bibracte and you talked to Vercingetorix.’

Slowly, Fronto nodded in agreement.

‘It might be a mistake letting him go, but for some reason, I’m inclined to do so anyway. Any Gaul who’s willing to negotiate peacefully is worth hanging onto. Especially if he’s one of the Arverni.’

The small group watched the figure as it disappeared inside the oppidum’s south gate. Fronto scratched his neck and shivered. ‘I think we could do with a little more information on what’s going on around us,’ he murmured, and turned to look back at his honour guard. ‘Samognatos? Have a hearty breakfast this morning. I’ve a job for you.’

 

* * * * *

 

‘We should have scraped the wall mildew and infected the wheat stores with it before we left,’ Critognatos snarled nastily. ‘We should have poisoned the wells.’

Cavarinos closed his eyes and counted to five. ‘There are still the best part of a thousand Senones staying in the oppidum. You would kill the women and children?’

His brother turned a fiery look on him. ‘I would butcher the children myself if it meant infecting ten thousand Romans with fungus-infested wheat!’

‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re in this fight for the good of our people or just to stand knee deep in Roman guts.’

The two brothers fell into an unpleasant silence as they passed, along with fifteen hundred men, women and children, along a gauntlet between lines of gleaming legionaries, their officers sitting astride their horses and watching the exodus of the fleeing tribe. Cavarinos was most profoundly grateful that he and his brother had managed to slip into the departing crowd without anyone pointing out their tribal alliance to the Romans.

Glancing back over his shoulder at the oppidum, Cavarinos could see the numerous legionaries already at work in the place, making the alterations necessary to contain a small garrison and form a supply depot. The Roman officer called Trebonius had been placed in charge of the operation and three cohorts of legionaries were in residence now.

Noting Fronto and his companions watching them pass, Cavarinos tried to shrink into himself and make himself less noticeable, wishing his brother would do the same and not sit so defiant and proud on his horse. The two dozen Arverni warriors that served Critognatos had filtered in among the Senones so as not to look too obvious. They would all separate from the column and ride ahead for Vercingetorix once they were well away from the Romans.

It was becoming a matter of urgency now to get back to the army.

Whatever Vercingetorix’s thoughts on the Aedui and the need for their support, he would now be forced to turn his attention elsewhere. While Cavarinos had been preparing to leave, he had caught a chance exchange by several legionaries unloading a cart inside the south gate. It seemed that the three cohorts were all that would remain in Vellaunoduno under Trebonius, for the army would be on the move again almost straight away, on a lightning campaign of severing the Arverni’s ties with their recent allies. Their immediate goal was Cenabum and the crushing of the Carnutes, and then they would be heading south for the Biturige towns of Novioduno and Avaricon.

Avaricon… Not more than forty miles from Gorgobina, where Vercingetorix and the army conducted a slow and patient siege.

 

* * * * *

 

Fronto and Priscus watched the rag-tag line of Senones pass, wondering how many other Arverni warriors were concealed among them. If there was one…

‘We’re going to see most of them again soon,’ the prefect muttered, ‘over the top of our shields as they run at us.’

‘You may be right, but at this precise moment they’re doing me a favour.’

His eyes picked out Cavarinos and the man who rode next to him - a man who looked so similar they could only be brothers, but who bore a full beard instead of just a moustache. Then his gaze slowly wandered back across the mass until he spotted Samognatos, a spear shouldered as he rode, his usual native kit close enough in appearance that of the Senones that he blended seamlessly with them.

‘Go careful, my friend,’ Fronto breathed.