Cenabum.
Fronto stood on the low slope and looked over the Carnute city of Cenabum, images of what must have happened here to the Roman supply depot drifting unbidden and unpleasant through his mind. His singulares and their officers remained respectfully a short distance behind - along with Caesar’s own praetorians - deferring to the command party who examined the lay of the land, while the legions approached still a mile or so further back.
The winds had died down and the rain had held off for the last two days, leaving a chilly stillness that made the hair stand proud on the back of his neck, as though the world held its breath, waiting for something to happen. His gaze wandered to the command group. Almost every officer of note was present, barring the three who remained with the army to keep things moving: Labienus, Priscus and Marcus Antonius.
So far, Fronto had had little time even to exchange pleasantries with the other officers and, after only a brief reunion when they had arrived in Agedincum, the army had been mobilised immediately. They had moved without pause, securing the base at Vellaunoduno and marching straight on to Cenabum to revenge themselves for the murder of the Roman residents a few months ago and to instil in the Carnutes such a bone-deep fear of Rome that they would pull away their support for the Arverni rebel. He made a mental note to spend some time mixing with the more sociable officers the next time the army halted for more than eight hours.
He had been absent from the army entirely two years ago, and even last year had spent much of the campaigning season off in the forests with only his singulares. Much had changed in the time he’d been away, apparently.
He knew most of the legates - the calm and collected Fabius of the Eighth, insightful Rufio of the Eleventh, solid Caninius of the Twelfth, impulsive and unpredictable Cicero of the Fourteenth, and formal Sextius of the Thirteenth - as well as Trebonius of the Ninth back at Vellaunoduno. The new legate of the Seventh was a surprise, though. Lucius Julius Caesar, cousin of the general and uncle of Marcus Antonius, had apparently forsaken his quiet, senatorial life in Rome during the late autumn and had travelled north to take command of the Seventh for his cousin, mere weeks before the lines of supply and communication had been severed. Yet this Lucius Caesar had seemingly taken it all in his stride with hardly a batted eyelid. A taciturn man with stretched, aged skin and a face not given to smiling, the general’s cousin had been efficient if not strong, and Fronto was still trying to decide whether the man was a quiet stoic or just too dumb to panic. If Fronto had come from a cushy estate to this damp, cold hellhole only to discover that he was immediately cut off from civilization by rebellious barbarians, he would have been a little more vocal about his troubles.
Varus and his three cavalry wing commanders were all familiar, though it was interesting to see young Volcatius, who had commanded the bridge over the Rhenus, among them. Thinking about them and why Volcatius had been drafted in brought home once more the missing shape of Galronus in proceedings. After all these years it seemed inconceivable to be on campaign without him. Fronto hoped against hope that all was going well down in Campania.
The camp prefect stood slightly apart, as though he felt that his difference in rank made him less valuable. That Felix had been made Camp Prefect gave Fronto something of a smile. The veteran centurion deserved nothing less, though he had his work cut out with this lot.
And in addition to that motley crowd of officers on the slope, three staff officers were present, standing behind Caesar like some theatrical chorus from a Greek play. Roscius and Calenus he could understand, but how Plancus had been elevated to the staff instead of sent home with his thumb still up his arse was beyond Fronto.
Fifteen men, representing almost the entire command system of the army above tribunate level. One good ambush from an ambitious enemy and…
His eyes strayed to his singulares, standing ready for trouble only a few paces from the slope, mirrored by Aulus Ingenuus and his praetorian horse guard, who waited patiently close by, eyes on the surrounding landscape, searching for signs of danger.
‘We’re a little in the dark here,’ Caesar hummed. ‘My only officers with a working knowledge of Cenabum are both gone - Crassus in the Parthian desert, and Cita probably in one of the mass graves down there. All we know is what we can see.’
They examined the city once more. On the north bank of the wide Liger River, Cenabum itself was a heavily walled place, without the advantage of nature’s heights, but more than protected by the labours of man. The defences were thick and high, with strong towers. The only gate in the walls led out onto the perhaps thirty-pace-wide dock area that ran the full length of the town along the bank, and opened out directly opposite a strong, wide bridge that marched out across the water to what must have been the Roman trade depot on the far bank.
Little remained of that place, barring ruined sheds and a torn and fallen stockade. Half a dozen large, grassy mounds bore silent witness to the death that had been dealt here. Looking at those burials in the knowledge that they were filled with mostly Roman civilians, but also housed a man with whom Fronto had argued affably over the availability of wine for half a decade, the legate of the Tenth felt a distinct pull toward retribution, his fingers reaching up to the ivory figurine of Nemesis at his neck and playing across the cold curves. While it would be better in almost all ways to resolve the war in Gaul peacefully, the Carnutes were now another matter. They could go hang for what they did here, and Fronto would happily knot the rope for them.
Images of Cita’s obstinate, argumentative face and his ample bulk swam through Fronto’s mind, and he found himself picturing that same face slashed across and mangled by blade and arrow. He realised that his teeth were clenched and his wrist tendons taut as he gripped his patron goddess tight for, unnoticed in his mind’s gallery, that face of Cita - murdered by the Carnutes - had morphed into that of poor young Crispus, brutally dispatched by the traitor Dumnorix of the Aedui two years hence.
His attention was dragged back by a sharp snap, and he realised with some vexation that he had gripped his beloved ivory Nemesis so tightly in his anger that he had snapped off her legs below the knees, such was the delicacy of the carving. He was still staring at the broken piece in his raw palm as he realised the officers were talking again.
‘We can seal them in easily enough,’ Plancus shrugged. ‘Ship a legion across the river somewhere upstream and out of sight and they can seal off the far end of the bridge. Then we surround them here. Starve them into submission.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘The theory is good, but we are now starting to feel the pinch of time, gentlemen. Vercingetorix does not tarry, I am sure, and a siege here will take too long. Cenabum is a hub for grain the same as Vellaunoduno, and their stores would permit them to withstand a siege for months. We need to secure this city fast. They will not submit the way the Senones did, for they know we will revenge ourselves upon them and they imagine that their tribe and the Arverni will come to save them. We must be quick and efficient.’
Rufio tapped his lip, musing. ‘So we cannot afford the time to besiege them, but we will lose a lot of men needlessly storming that heavy wall. Throwing away half a legion on their defences will not send the message of Roman strength that we need the Carnutes to witness. So, we draw them out, then?’
‘Precisely. But how?’
‘Fear,’ Fronto growled, peering at the city yet seeing only mangled Romans, his fingers rolling broken ivory.
‘What?’
‘Fear will draw them out. We set up the camps around the perimeter on the north bank as though we are prepared to besiege them. We start building large engines so that they know we mean business. We set up the artillery and fire-archers and start setting fire to the place, as though we don’t care about the grain inside. In fact, if we can set fire to a granary all the better. We do everything we can to terrify them, such that they are under no illusions that their time has come.’
Caesar nodded. ‘But they must already know that we will not give them quarter, so why would they leave the city?’
Fronto pointed down at the bridge. ‘Because that will be unguarded. They will have an escape route. We don’t need the whole city to flee. If just a few panic and try to bolt across the bridge, and we are ready for them, the city is ours.’
The general nodded his understanding. ‘Then we must be careful with our positioning. Fronto, you organise a force to keep watch from a hidden point on the far bank. Whether they run or not, I don’t want them to escape. The Tenth have the bridge. The other seven legions will encamp in a semi-circle around the city, setting up a cordon of pickets with torches by nightfall to ensure nothing leaves Cenabum. I want each officer here to begin dragging all their artillery into position and start constructing ladders, vineae and even a siege tower if we can source enough timber and hide. Frighten the life from the devils. And as soon as the archers and artillery are in place, I want a constant barrage, day and night, to keep them in a state of constant nervous tension. As soon as the city gates are secured, your men can stand down and rest. The rest of the legions will move in to clear the streets.’
Fronto nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Given the width and openness of the dock area, Caesar, we might want to deploy part of the legion there to prevent any flight by water.’
‘Very well,’ the general announced. ‘Have the army hold position until Fronto’s men cross the river.’
* * * * *
It was eerie. If there was one thing in the whole of the world that was not for Fronto, it was waterborne travel. The fact that the boat upon which he sat was moored and had not moved more than a few feet back and forth throughout the day did little to improve matters. He felt faintly ill and was well aware that his skin had its usual waxy grey sheen, despite being hidden by the darkness. He tried not to listen to the rhythmic slop, slop, slop of the water being compressed between the boat’s hull and the dockside, not to breathe in too deeply the smell of dead fish that lingered unpleasantly around the dock area.
Leaving six cohorts of the Tenth with the army to help secure the upstream and downstream banks, Fronto had sent Carbo across the river with the First Cohort. The half a thousand men had crossed around four miles upstream, over a gentle rise and around the Liger’s curve, out of both sight and hearing of the oblivious city. Using two fishing boats they had found tied up to the bank, it had taken almost an hour to get the entire cohort across, and a further two for them to move into position as subtly as possible among the ruins of the destroyed Roman depot. Finally, as the sun was beginning to descend towards the horizon, a brief burst of smoke from a fire went up among the ruins… just a thin tendril, which was instantly cut off and smothered. So brief as to be considered a trick of the eye to a casual watcher in the city, but enough to let those who waited for it know that Carbo and his half thousand men were in position.
Then, as Caesar’s army began to move, stomping into view of the city and drawing the full attention of its residents, Fronto, his singulares, and the remaining three cohorts had begun their own advance. Every man had stripped off his helmet and mail, his shield and his pilum, leaving them in the legion’s support wagons, and fourteen hundred men in units of eighty, each dressed in their drab russet tunics and carrying only their blades, had moved to the river bank. Then, dropping to the reeds and the mud and the small fishermen’s trails that wove among the almost continual coverage of trees and bushes, they had moved towards the city. Each century, aware that even without their metalwork, discovery was all too likely, waited for the previous century to move to the limit of their sight before following. Thus over the succeeding three hours, as the sun sank ever westward, a third of a legion moved in small clumps, hidden by shadows and foliage, descending unnoticed upon Cenabum, whose eyes were riveted elsewhere, upon the seven legions who had begun to set up a semi-circular cordon around the city.
Fronto had been relieved to find that his assumption had been correct. As he reached the edge of the foliage and the trees gave way to the solid dock and a packed line of trade and fishing vessels, not a single soul was visible there, every last man having run for the safety of the city walls before the gate shut in the face of Caesar’s aggression. As the sun’s rays glorified the sky with a golden sheen, the first thud declared that a ballista had begun to find its range. Within a quarter of an hour that single thud had blossomed into a constant clatter and rumble of stones, bolts, arrows and slingshots, all pounding the city of Cenabum into panic. All the defenders’ attention had gone from the waterline, worried eyes turned towards this impressive display of threat.
At the edge of the dock, Fronto waited for the last tip of the sun to disappear below the horizon, leaving the entire dock area a playground for shades and ghosts and, taking a steadying breath, he had climbed from the steps at the end of the dock onto the nearest boat, risking perhaps three feet of open space. Once aboard, he scurried along, hidden by the sails and shipped oars, the coiled ropes and the numerous crates and sacks, and then took a quick jump to the next ship, his precious leather bag slung at his waist.
Behind him, he could see the Masgava following, and then Palmatus, and so on. The brief argument as to whether it was the job of the singulares to move ahead of their commander had been ended with a reference to their ranks alone, though both his officers were still unhappy with him moving out first. In truth, they could probably all have run openly down the dock, given how little attention was being paid to this side of the city, but the plan relied upon the bridge appearing clear and inviting, and so they took care, the thuds and creaks, bangs and clatters as they ran and jumped helpfully concealed by the general noise of boats moving in the current and bumping against the dock.
An hour after sundown everything had been in place. An entire cohort was concealed at the western end of the dock, just within the trees, and another at the east. The remaining cohort - on paper four hundred and eighty, though numbering perhaps three quarters of that through ongoing casualties and losses - was concealed among the thirty or so boats moored by the river’s edge.
The sound of over a thousand men making absolutely no noise was so oppressive that it made Fronto want to scream, especially given the simmering thirst for retribution that bubbled beneath the surface of his skin. Sitting in this floating hell of gut-churning sea-sickness after the tense hours of moving so carefully into position was bad enough, but sitting in the silent presence of eighteen other soldiers, each apparently suffering near-terminal flatulence, was really starting to wear on his nerves, and he had already chewed three fingernails down to the nub - something he hadn’t done since childhood.
His gaze took in his boat-full of men, their shapes barely distinct in the darkness - Masgava virtually invisible, but for when his eyes turned this way. His entire singulares unit and a contubernium of legionaries from the Tenth with their officer, and each one had found something. Some carried lengths of rope, others sacks, pieces of dried timber or lengths of sailcloth. Fronto breathed again to calm his pulsating gullet and reached down for his own burden. A misshapen globe of horseshoe fungus taken from a dying birch tree, contained in the leather bag he had now untied from his belt. If he concentrated, he was sure he could feel the faint threads of heat emanating from the bag. An old soldier’s campaign trick, and one that would shortly play an important role in events.
He swallowed the latest thick-saliva mouth of his sickness and concentrated. In the distance, muted by the natural sounds of the river and the boats, he could still hear the continual barrage of artillery and missile troops driving the defenders of Cenabum down behind their walls. Somewhere in the midst of it he could hear a roaring noise that betrayed the successful torching of at least one building, and the shouts of consternation among a civil populace desperately trying to extinguish the conflagration.
Time passed in their nerve-wracking watery tomb.
It was perhaps approaching midnight when he heard a hiss from Atenos, the hulking Gallic centurion who stood at the prow of this boat - the nearest to the bridge. Fronto glanced across to see Atenos pointing towards the city while remaining hidden behind the raised prow. His eyes tracked passed the officer and noted the city gates opening.
This was it.
He held up his arm, indicating that no one should move, though every man knew the drill from the repeated explanations before they had set off along the riverbank. Moments later, he heard the pounding of feet as they passed from the packed gravel and earth of the dock and onto the echoing timbers of the bridge. There was no small number of panicked deserters, by the sound of it. Had they overcome the gate guard in their flight, he wondered? Or had they been released to their fate by a warrior intending to close the gate after them? Either way, it would be their end.
Keeping as hidden as he could, he mimed a question at Atenos, and the big centurion flattened his palm and made calming motions, suggesting that he wait. The urge to vomit was now becoming almost unbearable, given the mix of the boat’s sloshing movement and the tension at work on his nerves. Footsteps continued to pound across the bridge. There was clearly no small number of panicked runners.
And then suddenly Atenos was motioning at him. The escapees were all out. Time to move.
Atenos reached down to the bone whistle that hung at his neck and blew three short bursts. The call was echoed up and down the dock by each centurion and, without pause, the calm night scene of Cenabum’s dock became a seething nightmare.
All thought of formation completely ignored in the circumstances, the men of the Tenth Legion poured from the boats along the whole riverfront, large forces of them closing now from each end of the dock to seal the area off. Every second soldier had his sword out ready. The rest carried their various burdens, and here and there other centurions and a young tribune burst forth from the cover of the boat onto the hard dock. As he ran, Fronto discarded the leather bag. Cupping the horseshoe fungus in both hands, he cracked it open where it had earlier been cut in half, and blew repeatedly on the core, trying to divide his attention between that task and keeping his footing.
Sure enough, the smouldering core of the fungus, which had been in a slow burn now for many hours, began to flare up, pungent smoke pouring from the odd sphere. Now, satisfied that his burden was alight, he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Across the river, Carbo and his cohort were sealing off the southern exit, cutting down the fleeing Carnutes and pushing them back across the heavy bridge towards the chaos that awaited.
Aurelius and Biorix hit the open gate as it began to move, swords raised as they crashed into the few defenders. Some quick-thinking Gaul ignored the fight and kept pushing the gate shut from close behind, using his weight against it, out of danger from the Romans. Suddenly Atenos was there, sword already coated in shimmering red as he put his shoulder against the gate and heaved it back open.
The defenders would get the gate shut… there was no doubt about that. Under normal circumstances, anyway. There were perhaps a hundred legionaries now descending upon them, but there were dozens of defenders who had the benefit of armour and defences, and all they had to do was push the gates close enough to bar them and the attack would fail.
‘Quick!’ Fronto yelled irritably, as those legionaries and singulares carrying their armfuls of combustible material threw them against whichever of the two gates was the nearest. Fronto, along with the other fire-bearing officers, waited only long enough for a supply of sailcloth, dry timber, rope and the like to pile up against the gate, then nodded to Iuvenalis, who carried the dry hay animal fodder and scattered it on the top.
With a last blow on the fungus, Fronto cast it gently into the pile.
He barely had time to recoil before the hay caught and began to roar into orange life. Everything was so dry. The benefit of such a damp, cold season was that every merchant kept his goods safe and dry and out of the rain, so that each armful purloined from the boats and cast against the gates was perfectly tinder-dry.
The flames were roaring within moments, catching the ropes that tethered the wooden posts together to form the gate leaves and turning them black as they became part of the raging inferno.
Splashes back along the bridge announced a number of bodies plunging into the river, some torn and bloody at the hands of Carbo’s men, others in a desperate bid to escape that same fate. Few would make it. Good luck to them!
The forces from either end of the dock were now converging at the gate-and-bridge area, and those men who had carried armfuls of gear to feed the fires were drawing their blades. Leaving the poor bastards on the bridge to their fate, trapped between groups of legionaries and hemmed in by the railings, he made for Atenos, who was busy hacking down a Gaul in the gateway.
Perhaps a dozen of the Carnutes had rushed into the open gateway to hold back the tide of Roman iron, others having given up trying to close a gate that was now more of a pyre than an entrance. There were shouts of natives running off to fetch water for the gates.
‘Let’s get inside and take this place,’ Fronto snarled, his eyes dancing with the anticipation of revenge. The big Gaulish centurion raised an eyebrow as his victim fell away. ‘General’s orders were to wait for the others, sir?’
‘Piss on that. Cenabum belongs to the Tenth now. Time to avenge Cita!’
With a roar, he ripped out his own glittering sword, with its decorative orichalcum hilt and Noric steel blade, and leapt for the nearest of the defenders. The man was good, but desperate. He threw his shield in the way of Fronto’s blow, but the legate saw the man’s own chop coming and his open hand shot up and caught the wrist as the blade descended, pushing it aside as he slammed the tapering point of his gladius into the man’s ribcage.
Thrust, twist, withdraw…
Even as the man fell at his feet, Fronto was running, to the urgent shouts of Palmatus nearby. Behind, he heard Atenos blowing his whistle, issuing the melee command, which would release each man from supposed formation and give him the freedom to choose a target and deal with it accordingly. The centurion, the singulares and a few legionaries were right behind him as Fronto raced into the narrow streets of Cenabum.
A Gaul came hurtling out of a side street, his weapon forgotten as he carried a bucket of water, which slopped over the side with every step. His eyes widened as he saw the Roman before him - badly-shaven, wearing only a red tunic and with a face that was a mask of furious destruction. The bucket was cast aside, sloshing across the road, but before he could raise his sword, the lunatic Roman’s gladius had slashed a deep gouge across his neck, letting out a fountain of blood and a whoosh of air in a mix of crimson froth.
‘Bastard,’ shouted the Roman at the dying Gaul as he ran on, selecting another man who had emerged from a building carrying a spear, angled ready for a thrust with all his weight. Fronto ran at the man, screaming something incomprehensible about Gauls and the Tenth.
Atenos watched Fronto use his free hand to grab the spear and rip it to one side as he delivered three quick punches of his gladius with unerring accuracy to neck, belly and groin. The spearman screamed and fell back amid a wash of blood. Palmatus and the singulares were struggling to catch up with the man they had sworn to protect, finding themselves waylaid by desperate Gauls as they followed.
A Roman arrived next to Atenos, looking haggard and panicked, his young eyes wild with his first taste of real combat. The big centurion was about to order him on into one of the buildings when he realised that the man was one of the young narrow-stripe junior tribunes of the Tenth, his white officer’s tunic exchanged for a darker red one just like the rest of the legion’s officers for this action.
‘Stop him, centurion.’
Atenos blinked in surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘He’s gone mad, man. Can’t you see that? He must be stopped!’
Atenos peered off at the shouting legate as his commander savagely ripped open a warrior who’d had the misfortune to get in his way.
‘You don’t know our legate yet, do you, sir.’
‘Centurion?’
‘That’s not madness, sir. That’s two years of frustration and the loss of a couple of good friends finding a way out. I’d sooner step in front of a ballista than try and stop legate Fronto right now.’
Another glance up the street, and he watched with interest as Fronto pommel-bashed another man and took the opportunity of a lull in opponents to put a hard, military boot into the man’s ribs half a dozen times, yelling something incomprehensible as blood slicked down his blade and ran onto the hard-packed dirt at his feet.
‘We should report to Caesar that the town is ours,’ the tribune murmured quietly, a faintly horrified tone in his voice as he watched his legate at work, a huge stone hurled by some distant Roman siege engine missing him by a matter of feet and smashing into a building nearby.
‘Why don’t you go do that now, sir? I’ve got some Carnutes to kill.’
With the wild grin of the unfettered warrior, Atenos turned, yelled some dreadful Gallic war cry that ended peculiarly with a Latin reference to the Tenth legion, and barrelled on up the street in the gory wake of his commander, men of the Tenth yelling and running after him in support.
* * * * *
Fronto looked up at the sound of his name, the first word he had heard to which he’d felt remotely inclined to pay any attention over the last hour. The faint strains of sunlight were threading their way through the weave of the inky sky, forming the earliest tapestry of morning. The streets were muddy, yet tinted red with the blood of the Carnutes, their life’s essence pooling in hollows and forming moats around cobbles where the roads had been paved. The air was still murky and indistinct in the early light, fogged with the roiling smoke from a dozen charred buildings.
His singulares sat recovering in a huddle a few paces away, one or two sporting gashes and slashes. Across the small public square, a small party of legionaries was busy leading a line of a score of roped Carnute prisoners towards the city gate, while a similar party threw ragged native corpses into a commandeered wagon. Despite their work, the dead in the square still outnumbered the living.
How many of them had he killed personally, he wondered.
A group of legionaries burst from a doorway, laughing, their arms weighed down with plunder.
And there, in the middle of the square and walking towards him, was Marcus Antonius, senior officer of Caesar’s command… and friend.
‘Don’t start with me, Antonius.’
The curly-haired officer let out a strangely carefree laugh. ‘Hardly. Caesar will do that later. He takes it personally when one of his officers disobeys direct orders, though it’s such ingrained habit with you, I doubt he’ll do more than snap at you.’
The senior officer came to a halt a couple of paces from where Fronto sat on a wide, oak bench stained with the blood of the man that had died on it. He looked at the empty seat next to the Tenth’s commander and decided against it. With a shake of the head, he produced a wine-skin seemingly from nowhere and uncorked it, proffering it to Fronto.
‘No thanks. Don’t think I really need that right now.’
Antonius laughed. ‘On the contrary, Marcus, you need this right now. Have you taken a look at yourself lately?’
Fronto shook his head and Antonius looked around for a moment until he spotted a fallen Gaul, whose shiny, well-polished iron axe had not had time to see action before his untimely death. Crouching, he picked up the weapon and held it in front of the seated officer, such that the polished head acted as a mirror.
Fronto blinked at the sodden crimson demon that looked back at him in the blade, and reached up, wordlessly, for the flask.
‘I lost control.’
‘I know. Everyone knows. Three cohorts of men watched it happen. I hear you are to thank that silver goddess around your neck that you’re alive. Apparently half a dozen times our own artillery nearly did for you before they received the order to stop the barrage.’
‘It’s not a good trait in an officer. A legate should always be in control.’
Antonius chuckled. ‘Control is not all it’s cracked up to be, Marcus. Sometimes a little wild abandon is good for a person. Besides, this has been building in you for some time. And I’ve been told you have form. Apparently something similar happened in Britannia?’
Fronto nodded, remembering his berserk madness on that distant, misty isle.
‘What happened? I only saw a small part of the action.’
Antonius wandered over to the well a few paces away, retrieved the bucket of water and flung it across the blood-slicked bench before casting it aside. He crouched and took an intact cloak from a dead native, using it to dry the bench before he sank to the wood next to the legate.
‘The rest of the Tenth followed you in. The Eighth and the Eleventh both managed to get themselves involved before it was all over - they were the two legions nearest the gate. The last resistance was about an hour ago, in some native temple. A druid was stirring them up to kill, as though they still stood some kind of a chance. Stupid.’
‘Casualties?’
‘Theirs, or ours?’ laughed Antonius. ‘No idea how many their dead number, but we’re looking at about two thousand slaves to send back to Agedincum. Maybe a hundred got away, but we’re leaving them to spread the word to the rest of the tribe. As for ours? Well, we took the Carnutes by surprise. They hardly managed to raise a sword. About two hundred dead and critically wounded, and maybe a hundred walking wounded. Negligible, though sadly most of them were your lads.’
Fronto nodded absently.
‘And now it’s time for you to get back outside, get out of that grisly tunic, have a dip in the river and clean yourself up, and I’ll send someone with fresh clothes for you.’
‘I’d rather sit for a while longer,’ Fronto muttered. ‘My legs don’t seem to work.’
Antonius chuckled again and slapped him on the knee. ‘We have to go. The men are all being pulled out. The buildings have almost all been looted now, and the last bodies are being heaped into one of the granaries we emptied. As soon as we’re finished, Caesar’s given the order to burn the place to the ground. Cenabum is gone. The depot’s personnel are avenged.’
‘And next?’
‘Next?’ Antonius breathed, rising to his feet and reaching out a hand to his fellow officer. ‘Next we move to Novioduno as planned. The rumour is that the Bituriges have forsaken their oath to both us and the Aedui and thrown in their lot with Vercingetorix. Before we march on Avaricon, which is said to be impregnable, we need to test the water, as it were. Novioduno is small and no great threat, and we can confirm the nature of their allegiance there before we move to Avaricon.’
‘No rest for the weary,’ Fronto sighed as he reached up and took the proffered hand, using it to pull himself to his feet, his gore-soaked tunic sticking, cold and unpleasant, to his skin.
‘To the river, Antonius. Then before we move on, I would like to sample a little more of that wine!’
* * * * *
The Boii oppidum of Gorgobina.
The latest assault pulled back rapidly down the gentle slope and Vergasillaunus sucked his teeth in consternation, watching the Arverni warriors and their allies as they retreated in disarray towards the large camp seething with men and animals. Without taking his eyes from the retreat and the jeering forms of the Rome-supporting Boii defenders atop the high walls, he cleared his throat and addressed Vercingetorix.
‘Why do we not commit a sizeable force and simply swamp them? It disheartens our warriors to attack again and again with no true hope of success.’
The king of the Arverni gave his cousin that usual knowing smile. ‘Gorgobina’s walls are high, for all its low slopes, and its inhabitants are fighting for their very existence. Any committed assault will cost us dearly, and I am in the process of building this army, not demolishing it.’ He saw his cousin readying to reply, and cut him off. ‘Gorgobina has only one well which, according to our sources, is not plentiful. Most of their grain is held in the farms that harvested it and are now under our control. And the oppidum is full to the brim with desperate Boii. Their food and water will not last long, and then we can simply walk into the place and claim it without risking many men. We just have to keep sending small forays to tire them out and help them lose hope.’
‘But the delay?’
‘What is a delay of a few weeks now? Caesar will take time to move with his army. The legions have been scattered in winter quarters, and getting them together and ready - let alone supplied - to move on us will take time. And we will hear from our northern allies when he starts to move.’
‘You are sure he is in the north with his army, then?’ Vergasillaunus murmured, ‘and not to the south in our homeland?’
‘I am certain of it. But Caesar believes he has plenty of time. He will be convinced he has tricked us into running south to protect our homes. He is not coming for us, and I want the Aedui behind our banner before he does. I am not yet considering time my most pressing concern. Every day we reduce the Boii, the Aedui are watching us and our men among them twist their leaders to our cause. No, Vergasillaunus, we are under no pressure here.’
He looked up once more at the walls.
Gorgobina was a small oppidum, the home of a tribe Caesar had settled here years before in the aftermath of his victory over the Helvetii. The tribe who occupied it was a small one, but loyal to both the Aedui, who sponsored them, and Rome, who had settled them with grace rather than extinguishing or enslaving them. The walls of the place were only a few years old and had been constructed with Aedui help and Roman resources. They were powerful and high and thick.
But nature had given them only a trickle of water within, and their own unpreparedness had left them short of grain - the grain which was even now being gathered by the Arverni and added to their own supplies. If the Boii had been clever, they would have torched their fields when they retreated within the walls and left nothing for the attackers. But then, they were not warriors like the Arverni, they were Roman lap-dogs.
The pair stood silent for a moment and then the king stretched. ‘Give them an hour to drop their guard and then send another small foray in from the north. Let’s keep them nervous and exhausted. We have the numbers, they do not.’
Vergasillaunus nodded and frowned as he saw a solitary warrior running towards them.
‘What’s this?’
The man closed on the pair and dropped to a knee, bowing his head before rising again. ‘There is a small column of horsemen coming in from the north, my king.’
Vercingetorix glanced at his cousin with an arched eyebrow.
‘Who knows?’ the man replied, and then turned to the warrior. ‘Any idea who they are?’
‘No. They’re not Romans, though. And they don’t look like Aedui. They will be here any moment.’ He rose and gestured to the north, where they could just make out a small party of cavalry cresting the low rise and moving down to the lower ground where the army had made camp.
The two commanders of the Arverni army waited patiently and watched as the horsemen approached, were met by a dozen spear-bearing Lemovice warriors and questioned before being permitted to proceed into the camp.
‘Friends, then,’ Vergasillaunus mused. They kept their eyes on the group as the two lead horsemen came on through the wide camp and the rest - clearly their escort - peeled off elsewhere. Vercingetorix was peering through the grey with narrowed eyes and trying to identify them when his cousin straightened with a smile.
‘Our favourite brothers return.’
The king frowned and gradually the creases around his eyes moved into a smile. But by the time the two chieftains had closed on the commanders’ vantage point, he could see the seriousness of the brothers’ expressions, and his smile had slipped away again.
‘My king,’ Critognatos said, sliding from the horse straight into a curt bow. Cavarinos simply nodded his head respectfully from the saddle.
‘You bring bad news?’
‘Not I,’ Critognatos said, earning him a cold look from the other rider. ‘Many thousand warriors are on their way from the Meldi, the Parisi and the Catelauni, and upwards of two thousand from the tiny unimportant tribes. The Carnutes and the Senones are with us still, and will send men in due course, the first moment the Romans turn their gaze away.’
‘And there lies the problem,’ Cavarinos said with a sigh. ‘Caesar is already abroad with his army. He has taken the grain stores of Vellaunoduno and moved on with eight legions to Cenabum, which I can assure you will by now be naught but bones and burned timbers… you know how the Romans hold a grudge. I wish we had got word to you faster, but we were delayed in our journey by having to avoid Aedui lands. Caesar has sent word to them, and the northern Aedui towns would sell us out to Rome in a heartbeat.’
‘The man moves with the speed and sureness of a snake,’ Vercingetorix said, shaking his head admiringly. ‘I wonder sometimes what the Romans have done that their gods gift them with such men to win their wars. Still, our own army is not led by fools. Caesar seeks to divide us from our northern allies? Let him concentrate on keeping the Carnutes and the Senones out of things. We already have many of their number with us. Plus we’ll soon have the Aedui - no matter what the Romans’ ambassadors can offer - and their numbers more than make up for the loss of any further Carnutes.’
Critognatos’ face took on a sour cast. ‘You would abandon the Carnutes and their neighbours to the Romans simply on a matter of numbers?’
‘Frankly, yes,’ Vercingetorix said, matter-of-factly. ‘We cannot afford to be sympathetic or sentimental at the cost of this war… you have seen for yourself what we are up against. Do you think Caesar would abandon pursuit of a large ally to rush to the aid of a small one?’ He rolled his neck wearily. ‘Besides, once we have the Aedui with us and we have the numbers to crush Caesar, we will move north and help our brothers the Carnutes, sure in the knowledge of our success.’
Cavarinos stirred uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘I’m afraid it might be a little more urgent than that. While at Vellaunoduno, I learned that once the Romans have destroyed Cenabum, their sights are turning to the south. Caesar seeks to enforce his alliance with the Aedui and the Bituriges. He will march upon Novioduno, and then Avaricon. And given how long we have taken to get here because of the cursed Aedui, the Romans will most likely be closing upon their first destination already.’
Vergasillaunus turned a surprised expression upon his commander. ‘Avaricon is only forty miles from here. Do we have the men yet to bring him down?’
The Arverni king affected a far-away look as he made mental calculations of strength. ‘No. I do not believe so. Not without the Aedui. Caesar has eight legions and all of them are veterans, having cut their teeth on the shields and bones of our people for years. They have no fear of us and are more than familiar with our battle skills and tactics.’ He rolled his head, his neck clicking. ‘Besides, I have no intention of rushing off to aid Avaricon and abandoning all our work here.’
‘But cousin…’ Vergasillaunus began.
‘No. Avaricon is the strongest fortress in the west. The Bituriges can hold it for many weeks. Long enough for us to raze Gorgobina, conclude matters here, enlist the Aedui, and then move west and crush Caesar against Avaricon’s walls. We stick with our plan.’
‘Unless,’ Cavarinos murmured, ‘both Novioduno and Avaricon both open their gates to him willingly. The Bituriges have long been his allies through the Aedui, and they are not yet truly bound to our cause by aught other than fear.’
The Arverni king nodded thoughtfully. ‘I agree. Both cities must be bolstered, Novioduno in strength and Avaricon in courage. Novioduno is almost twice as far away - perhaps eighty miles. We will be truly fortunate to have a force reach it before the Romans do. We will sadly be forced to sacrifice the place in order to preserve Avaricon, but it will serve a purpose in delaying Caesar.’ He turned to Vergasillaunus. ‘Lucterius frets at being here and not in open battle. Send him with three thousand cavalry to Novioduno, as fast as they can ride. He can strengthen their defences with his men, and his own courage will bring forth their own. He must hold the place as long as possible and deny the Romans their supplies even in the end. When the place falls, I trust him to burn all the Bituriges’ supplies and find a way out and back to us.’
His cousin nodded with a smile. Lucterius would relish the chance. Having been forced by expediency to abandon his attack on Narbo, he had been champing at the bit to take red war to the Romans.
‘And you two?’ the king said, gesturing at Cavarinos and Critognatos. ‘Take a couple of thousand of the best warriors you have and make at all speed for Avaricon. Help the weak Bituriges shore up their defences and prepare for Caesar. You will have plenty of time, since the Romans will be delayed by Novioduno. Hold Avaricon, whatever you do, and when we have the Aedui we will come for Caesar. If the gods are with us, we will grind the Romans to dust before its walls.’
Cavarinos looked across at his brother, whose eyes had begun to twinkle with that lust for combat that seemed to drive him above all. He sighed. After the fall of Vellaunoduno he had felt lucky to have got away without taking part in a brutal siege alongside his idiot brother. And now here he was being given a second chance. Wonderful.
‘What of the curse?’ he said quietly. ‘The army should know of it.’
‘They will soon enough. But let us finish building that army first.’
Cavarinos’ fingers crept unbidden to the leather bag at his belt which contained the tablet of Ogmios, and he chided himself for it as he realised.
Men and steel… that was what won wars.
Avaricon, then, would be the first true test of Caesar’s strength and, if things went right, his last, too.