Avaricon
‘You know they won’t hold out much longer,’ complained Gannascos of the Bituriges, earning a round of agreement from his fellow tribesmen and a few other sympathisers. Vercingetorix fought down his irritation, his features made menacing by the flickering light of the fire and the braziers in the tent. Sleep was beginning to appeal.
‘Avaricon is still well-provisioned and its defences hold. Moreover, the defenders have set back the Roman attack by weeks, and Caesar does not have weeks before his army mutinies through hunger. They are close to starvation. Avaricon can hold long enough.’
‘The Romans nearly had them yesterday.’
‘But they did not. Your fellow Bituriges in the city fought them back with strength and ingenuity. If they can continue to do so, the Romans will have no choice but to lift the siege. At this point in the proceedings, the Romans can only achieve victory before they starve if the Bituriges allow them. So what would you have me do?’
Gannascos’ upper lip twitched. A tic was affecting his left eye too, and the combination was making his face appear to ripple. ‘We are strong still. Caesar is weak. We should attack!’
The Arverni king rolled his eyes. ‘Clearly you have not put much thought into that suggestion. Would you care to weigh up the options before making yourself look foolish in front of your peers?’
The tic increased in pace and strength as the Biturige noble bridled.
‘You listen to me, Arverni king…’
‘No. You listen to me. We have just over forty thousand men here, and they are mostly cavalry. Have you looked about yourself and at Caesar’s position? We are in a land given to swamp and marsh in any low-lying area. There are three peaks among the marsh. We occupy one, Caesar another, Avaricon the third. To effectively launch a strong attack on Caesar we would have to attack from the east, since he is bounded by river and swamp and the besieged city in all other directions. That means we would be limited to perhaps a mile-wide corridor. What do you think Caesar will have done there?’
One of the other lesser chieftains cleared his throat. ‘Defences.’
‘Precisely. My scouts tell me that direction is heavily fortified, particularly against cavalry, for Caesar knows well our strength. And Caesar has eight legions and their auxiliary support, plus his few regular cavalry. Their numbers are, even at a minimum, the match of ours. Yes, they are starving, but they are also tightly secured behind strong defences. An attack by us would be throwing away men as though casting stones into a lake. If you wish to attack Caesar, I will not stop you, but you will not take the Arverni or our clients on your doomed escapade. The least tactician among you should be able to see the foolishness of such a course of action.’
‘Then we wait?’ the irritated noble snapped to hide the colour rising in his cheeks.
‘We wait for Caesar to break off his siege. Then we resupply from Avaricon, and then we can move against him if need be, though I am still inclined to wait upon the Aedui, for they are the key in this war. In the meantime, if you fear for your townsfolk, Gannascos, have a single man negotiate the swamp and take word to them. Tell them that if they wish to flee the city and they can manage the swamps, they are welcome at our camp.’
* * * * *
The gathering of Biturige warriors hefted their weapons and wrapped their goods into bags they could carry on their shoulders. Cavarinos sighed as he leaned on the rail in front of the house he had called home now for the weeks he had languished in Avaricon.
‘You truly intend to leave?’
‘This place is doomed. We go to join the army.’
The Arverni noble rolled his eyes. ‘Avaricon will be doomed if its fighting men sneak out in the last hour of the night to wade through swamps and leave its women and children to fight off the Romans.’
Next to him, Critognatos shook his head and winced at the pain from the tightly-bound wound in his shoulder where some unseen foe had stabbed him in the press on the ramp. ‘There are less than a hundred of them. They will make no great difference to the manning of the walls, but a hundred less mouths to feed will enable us to withstand the siege for longer.’
‘It just means that the Romans will find more grain waiting for them when they take Avaricon because we are short of men!’
‘Teutatus, Taranis and Anvallus preserve you,’ offered one of the warriors. ‘We must go now, while the dark still conceals our passage.’
‘Let them go,’ Critognatos grunted.
‘No.’ Both men turned to see a woman standing in the doorway of a house across the street. She was a commoner in ragged clothes and with tangled, matted hair, but the fire in her eyes and the strength in her voice gave her a strange nobility to Cavarinos’ mind.
‘What?’ snapped one of the warriors in the street.
‘You would flee like cowards and leave your womenfolk to fight? I say no.’
‘It is not your place to question us, hag!’
The woman folded her arms defiantly. ‘Then consider this: for you to leave, we have to unbar and unblock one of the gates. Without the bridges, you will have to use one of deer trails through the marsh. All it then takes is for one Roman scout to see you and then Caesar is aware of the trail. Then we are in twice the peril. I say no. A hundred cowards fleeing could cost us our chance of survival.’
Cavarinos blinked at the woman. There was no denying her logic, and he could see the same thought dancing around the expressions of the warriors gathered in the street. He looked at his brother, and even Critognatos was nodding at the sense of it.
‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘No one leaves.’
‘How will you stop us, Arvernian?’
‘I will stop you,’ the woman snapped. I, and the others. We will tell the Romans where you are, so that they can pick you off in the swamp. What is it to be, Eridubnos, son of Garo the fisherman?’
The warrior narrowed his eyes, his whole body trembling with anger, but he said nothing. Other men and women, both noble and commoner, young and old were appearing in doorways, and a knot of them had gathered blocking the street ahead with folded arms.
‘Drop your bags and get to the walls,’ Cavarinos said quietly but firmly. ‘Dawn is not far off, and the light will bring with it fresh hell.’
* * * * *
Fabius and Furius stood in the awning of the latter’s tent as they helped each other into cuirasses and baldrics, passed over helmets and swords. Between moments of labouring into uniform, the two tribunes from the Tenth legion peered out into the deep grey and the torrential rain that had begun with the rising of the sun and as yet showed no sign of letting up. Blown sheets of rain gusted across the hillside.
‘I will be glad to leave Gaul, whether we win the place or lose it,’ Fabius grumbled.
‘I’ve never known a place with such depressing spring weather,’ agreed his friend, and reached out from the shelter of the leather flap to allow the falling rain to blatter on his open palm. ‘It’s a wonder the whole bloody place doesn’t wash away into the sea.’
‘But in summer it can get damned hot,’ Fronto muttered as he stepped into view from the tent’s side, his cloak wrapped tight around him, his crest looking soggy and limp. His face bore that tell-tale expression of little sleep and regretful hangover.
‘I can’t believe he’s got soldiers working in this,’ Furius said quietly. ‘The men are already feeling restive and bleak after that debacle last night.’
The three men peered out into the downpour. A rumble of thunder rolled over the hills to the north, as if to highlight the misery. Avaricon was only barely visible through the grey sheets of water, a darker shape rising through the dismal air. Small detachments of men were just visible moving about on the ramp - four centuries had been committed and told to take it slowly and carefully. Their remit had been an attempt to repair the minor fire damage to the towers, straighten the vineae, replace the pulley ropes and fill in the sunken pits in the ramp with baskets of gravel. They were not to engage the enemy, and were to keep themselves safe, even if it meant slow work. After all, there would be no missiles from the walls in this weather.
‘Caesar is never a predictable man,’ Fronto reminded them. ‘And therein lies the reason for my visit. The senior officers of the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth have been called into a meeting. The general wants to see us all as soon as. Due to my… circumstances… we’re already late.’
The two tribunes finished adjusting their armour, threw the heavy wool cloaks about them and nodded to their commander. Taking a preparatory breath, the three men stepped out into the battering rain and hurried across the gloopy mud to the general’s tent, where Aulus Ingenuus and two of his men gestured for them to enter without challenging them.
As well as the commanders and officers from the four named legions the rest of the staff were present, as well as the legates from the other legions. It came as no surprise to Fabius and Furius that they were the last to attend. Rare was the meeting for which Fronto was on time, and word was that he had spent three of the five hours the army had rested since the night’s chaos drinking with Antonius, which was always a recipe for disaster and usually ended up with Fronto in a bad mood.
‘Good. Now we’re all here,’ Caesar said pointedly, his eyes lingering on Fronto for a moment, ‘time to explain the morning’s plans.’
The officers shuffled slightly in the expectant silence. Every man present had assumed that the day would go on as it was, small units repairing the damage so that the army was in a position to re-build the ramp to the correct height when the storm finally passed. A crack of thunder slightly closer filled the silence.
‘I have given the Bituriges what they expect,’ Caesar announced. ‘Small repair work. Tired, unhappy men trying to put things right.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Enemy numbers on the wall are somewhat thin this morning, having committed only enough watchers to keep an eye on the workers below, while the rest shelter from the storm in houses. Now, seemingly, is our time to strike.’
Antonius turned a frown upon the general. ‘Respectfully, Gaius, can you not hear the foul mood of Jove out there? The gods grumble and moan.’
‘I would suggest that the grumbling out there is aimed at the Gauls, Marcus. Do not forget that they worship Jove as Taranis. That noise is the gods telling the inhabitants of Avaricon that their time is come. And it is.’
The general ignored the doubt in his friend’s face and slapped his palms on the table. ‘We are faced with failure, gentlemen, but the gods have dropped a gift in our lap and we must accept it, lest we lose all. The engineers tell me that last night’s troubles set us back more than a week. Probably two. The ramp will have to be strengthened from the base up before it can be significantly raised. I am sure I need to point out to no one that in two weeks our army will have starved to death or deserted. The men are at their breaking point and, while I could instil fear in them and keep them in line for a few more days, I will not do that, for who can blame them? Starvation is a terrible thing and we are all desperately hungry. I hear mutters of withdrawal even from the officers.’
As the assembly looked at one another suspiciously, Caesar shrugged. ‘No blame. I sympathise with the sentiment… but I will not abandon Avaricon. We cannot. And we cannot afford to wait. So you see our position: we have to do something, and we have to do it now. And the gods have seen fit to give us a storm for cover.’
He stood, straightening, his stomach gurgling unhappily as if to support his words. From a bag on the table, he withdrew two military decorations and placed them upon the polished timber in front of everyone. The officers stared at the two mural crowns, glinting and shining, freshly made, apparently.
‘Corona muralis. Two of them. One for each side of the ramp. In half an hour, the strongest and best men of these four legions will filter into the vineae tunnels at either side and creep up the ramp. The rain and grey miasma will hide them, and if they are quiet, we can fill the tunnels with the best men in the army without alerting the Gauls. In the last hour I have had four new siege ladders manufactured, with the extra height to touch the wall tops. They will be transported under the vineae to the ramp top. At a signal, they will all be raised and the men will take the walls and the city. The first man from each line of vineae who can raise a standard in victory will have one of these prizes. And every man in the army will have free reign when the city falls. Permission to loot to their heart’s content, with the exception of food. All food will be gathered and then dispensed by the quartermasters. Tonight we will eat in Avaricon.’
Someone’s stomach filled the satisfied silence with a long, low rumble.
* * * * *
Fabius and Furius stood pressed in the ranks of the Tenth’s leading century. Just as every other legate of the four veteran legions, Fronto had immediately grabbed Atenos and Carbo and begun separating out those who were at less than total fitness, largely due to hunger, exhaustion and the illness endemic of the wet Gallic spring. Atenos then weeded out those he didn’t think capable of a swift climb or who were too noisy to move subtly into position. The result was near seven hundred men, all fit and strong, despite current conditions, and the other legions had put forth roughly similar numbers.
Every man present had had the prospect of the coveted mural crown dangled before him as extra incentive to end the siege in short order, and each man of each legion currently huddled in the shelter of the vineae lines was hungry not only for food, but for success - desperate to be the first man to raise the sign of Rome above the wall. The signifers stood a good chance, of course, for they would already be carrying the standards of the legions and would be easily spotted by the officers. However, in these situations it was rare for the standard bearers to live long enough to do so, and often the vexillum or standard was raised by the first man to have bloodied his blade enough to clear a space.
The two tribunes were effectively the highest ranking officers here. None of the legates were present. Fronto had argued, of course, but since his old knee had started to play up again on damp days despite his high level of fitness, there was a distinct possibility that his knee would give way as he climbed the ladder, imperilling everyone. And none of the other legions’ tribunes or legates would stoop low enough to join the ordinary soldiers in such an action. Not so: the pair from the Tenth.
Furius elbowed aside a man he considered to be standing too close. The entire press was tight, of course, keeping ready and out of sight of the Gauls on the walls above. Narrowing his eyes at the man, Furius noted the naked hunger in the man’s expression.
‘Keep your grubby hands off the standard. That corona’s mine.’
Fabius rolled his eyes. ‘The important thing is for Avaricon to fall,’ he reminded his friend.
‘Absolutely. And for me to be waving the flag above it when it happens.’ He pointed a warning finger at the legionary, who managed to look back at him both deferentially and defiantly at the same time, in an award-winning expression.
‘Leave the standard to me or spend a year digging shit-pits. Got me?’
‘Ignore him, soldier,’ put in Fabius with a grin, but Furius continued to wag his finger threateningly.
Somewhere back in the camp, a single cornu blared out a long, protracted ‘booooo’, which was quickly taken up by several other musicians.
‘That’s it,’ Fabius said loudly, as the siege ladders were passed over his shoulder to the men at the front, a couple of ranks ahead of the tribunes. Being at the front was the most dangerous place to be, while being too far back pretty much put you out of the running for the corona, and Furius, who had narrowly missed winning that very decoration at Jerusalem under Pompey a decade earlier, had positioned himself carefully, unwilling to pass up the same chance twice.
Moments later, the ladders were rising up against the wall and falling into place, the foot-long iron spikes protruding from the bottom jammed into the ground to prevent slippage. Even before the wooden tip had clattered against the stone of the wall the first legionary had his foot on the bottom rung, sword still sheathed so that he had a free hand to climb while the other held his shield up to protect him from falling missiles. As the men began to climb, the engineers at the very front, even ahead of the ladders, ran forward with their hammers and ringed iron pitons.
The shout of alarm went up on the wall top at the sight of the first ladder arriving and the defenders were immediately struggling to push the ladder out, shouting for their comrades to aid them on the walls and to bring the forked sticks to push away the offending siege equipment.
The left-hand of the two ladders among the Tenth began to push away from the wall, rising to the perpendicular, causing shouts of panic from the legionaries halfway up it. The engineers were busy hammering the pitons into the visible ends of the logs that formed the framework of Gaulish city walls. As two of them helped pull that swaying ladder back against the wall, other men fed thick ropes through the iron ring-pitons driven into the wall, then looped the ropes around the ladders and pulled them tight, tying them off and effectively holding the ladders against the walls, no matter how hard the defenders pushed. It was a satisfying technique put forward by Mamurra - the siege master - using the Gauls’ walls to anchor the ladders that would scale them.
And then in the press of men, Fabius found himself at the ladder and stepped aside as best he could in the press to allow Furius up first. The second tribune nodded his thanks and slammed his foot on the rung, ripping his sword free as he climbed since he, like his fellow tribune, carried no shield as a standard part of his uniform.
The two men swept up the ladder as fast as they could. A scream echoed from above and a flailing body fell past, his shield following on, to crash down to the ramp, where he thrashed and twitched. The tribunes paid him scant attention, concentrating on climbing up towards the cacophony of battle above. Fabius glanced up past his friend and spotted the Second century’s standard bearer two men above them.
The ladder shook wildly as the defenders renewed their attempts to push it away from the wall, and for a panicky moment Fabius lost his grip, quickly recovering it. The man above them was less fortunate, slipping and disappearing past them with a cry that ended in a thud and silence.
The standard bearer reached the top and Fabius was surprised to see the man disappear over the parapet suddenly with a squawk, pulled there by the defenders, presumably.
And then the world exploded into frantic action.
Furius was up and clambering over the top, Fabius right behind him. The ladder to their left was still in trouble, the men clambering up it meeting stiff resistance at the top and failing to make headway onto the wall. At the top of this ladder an arc of dead men - both Gaul and Roman -surrounded a killing zone, in which blades clashed and shields crashed. More and more of the Bituriges were arriving from the city below, joining the fight, though more Romans reached the ladder top every moment, evening the numbers as they grew. Fabius saw the standard bearer take a horrible blow to the face from a broad-bladed sword, slicing deep, horizontally through nose, cheeks and eyes and leaving a trench in the dying man’s head.
The standard fell, and Furius was straight at it. Fabius leapt after him, parrying a blow that should have taken Furius’ head off as he ran with single-minded purpose. The warrior lunged at him again and Fabius was forced to sidestep to deflect the blow, almost toppling back over the wall until the next legionary over the parapet pushed him back away. Three more clashes of blades and Fabius saw his opening, dipping low and driving his blade in just above the man’s hip, through his gut and up to pierce his heart.
He looked up to see Furius in trouble, turning aside blow after blow, mostly through blind luck, as he worked to free the standard from its dead bearer’s fingers. Leaping forward, Fabius slammed his sword into the attacker’s side, giving his friend a moment’s respite. The Gauls seemed to be pulling back under the onslaught, the wall top clearing and a space opening around them.
As he glanced about, he saw a wide area beginning to open around the other ladder, too. Sure enough, many paces over to their right, above the vineae at the far side of the ramp, the other two ladders were in place and men were securing the wall above them. He became aware, over the din of battle, of the cacophonic honking of carnyx in the city below, and realised the Gauls were pulling back, abandoning the walls.
Furius had the standard now and was struggling to find his feet.
‘The corona!’ someone shouted. ‘The corona is won!’
Fabius glanced round to see a blood-slicked legionary standing above the other ladder a few paces to their left, waving a standard from one of the centuries at that position. His gaze turned slowly back to Furius, to see his friend’s face drain of colour. The tribune rose slowly from his crouch, the standard slipping from his loose fingers. His gaze was fixed on the ecstatic legionary waving the other standard in a welter of blood. As Furius took an angry pace forward, Fabius stepped in front of him.
‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
Furius pushed his friend roughly out of the way, but Fabius grabbed his sword hand and pulled at the fingers until he dropped the blade. At least the tribune wouldn’t gut the victorious legionary, now.
He followed his friend, wiping the rain from his eyes and gesturing for the legionary to lower the standard, but the oblivious man was too busy celebrating as he waved it. The blood-soaked veteran reeled as the tribune’s punch connected with his jaw, sending him back two steps before he righted himself.
‘What…?’
‘That was for Jerusalem…’ Furius snarled, drawing a look of utter incomprehension from the legionary. He was still frowning in confusion as the tribune’s uppercut sent him back and onto his arse, the standard clattering away through the rain to the wet wall-top.
‘And that was for Avaricon, you pisspot!’
Furius sagged as Fabius grabbed his shoulders and pulled him backwards, uttering polite excuses to the legionary who lay on his back, massaging his face.
‘You are a mad bastard at times,’ he grinned at his irate companion.
* * * * *
Critognatos thrashed his sword around in the air in angry impotence, the rain ricocheting from his face and armour in a fine spray.
‘The cowards! The gods-forgotten cowards! Who sounded the recall? The walls could have been saved!’
Cavarinos nodded silently. Much as he hated to agree with his brother, it was true. The walls had fallen needlessly, and with them Avaricon had gone. But it was not cowardice, whatever Critognatos said. It was laxity. It was over-confidence and negligence on the part of the leaders of the city who had not insisted on a full complement on the wall regardless of the terrible weather. Had the wall held its usual number of men and been on proper alert, the Roman ladders would never have succeeded and the legions would not have managed to achieve a foothold on the parapet.
Still, it was all moot now. The wall had fallen.
‘We must rally the warriors. We can fight them still,’ Critognatos snapped. ‘We know these streets and Roman tactics will not work here. We can make them pay for every foot of ground they take.’
‘Pointless,’ Cavarinos replied sadly. ‘The city has fallen. All you will do is get more men killed.’
‘Then you advocate flight?’ his brother snarled.
‘Not for the Bituriges, actually. It’s up to the people of Avaricon what they do. Hide? Fight? Run? It is no longer our concern… it cannot be. We have to get back to Vercingetorix and the army.’
‘I will not run when the fight is upon us.’ Critognatos spotted a man with a carnyx over his shoulder running in the direction of the oppidum’s main square. ‘You!’
The man paused, his face flushed with panic, and jogged across to the two Arverni nobles, shaking his head to dislodge the water-logging from his wild hair and moustaches.
‘Here’s what I want: sound a call for your people to muster here. Then form into a wedge. It works for the Romans. Men with the biggest shields to the front, spears...’
‘Crit, he’s just a musician.’ Cavarinos turned to the man. ‘Just muster your warriors here.’
As the man began to honk, boo and squawk through the tall instrument, the noise somewhat dampened by the endless batter of rain, Cavarinos grabbed his brother by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. ‘We cannot stay. If we stay, we die. Everyone here is going to die. Caesar will not take slaves this time… he cannot feed them! Worse, perhaps, that Roman - Fronto - will recognise us and we will be interrogated before we die. Form them up to fight, but then we must leave them to it and run.’
The heavier-set of the pair looked back at his calm sibling and finally nodded, regretfully. ‘You’re right, of course. These cowards will have to die on their own now.’
As the first of the Bituriges warriors began to turn up in the street, Cavarinos watched the Romans filing along the walls, effectively surrounding the city using its own ramparts. ‘We have to go soon, or there will be no escape.’ He frowned. ‘But as we go, we need to fire the granaries, leave the Romans nothing.’
Critognatos grinned nastily and grabbed a local warrior by the shoulder. ‘Form into a wedge as the Romans do. Put your strongest men in the front with the biggest shields to hold the legionaries off. Have spearmen behind in the third or fourth row. As soon as the Romans come into the square, they will form into their usual line. Then you charge. As soon as your wedge breaks their formation, you can kill hundreds easily.’
The warriors looked uncertain but nodded anyway and began to organise all those who turned up. The brothers watched for a while as the wedge formed somewhat chaotically, the constituent warriors’ faces betraying their uncertainty and fear. They would never stop the Romans, but they would do a lot of damage if they held it together.
‘Time to go,’ Cavarinos whispered to his brother, and the pair moved to the rear of the formation and slipped into a side street.
As soon as they were gone the muttering began, and after only a few heartbeats men began to abandon the wedge, scurrying off into alleys, searching for an adequate hiding place. As the formation splintered and dissolved from within, a figure shouldered a spear and ran for a particular alley.
* * * * *
Cavarinos peered at the granaries - two tall timber structures that rested on stilts some three feet above the damp ground, allowing air to circulate and prevent both rot and rats from getting to the precious supplies within. As was usually the case, a loading block stood at the end of each with steps down the side to allow carts to unload their cargo directly into the buildings. The fact that they were by necessity kept so dry made granaries a terrible fire risk, but for once, that played to their design. Critognatos hefted the burning torch he had found in the doorway of a house as they ran, the sizzling pitch defying even the torrential rain to extinguish it.
‘We have to be thorough,’ Critognatos murmured.
‘We have to be quick!’ Cavarinos replied, listening to the sounds of the legionaries moving through the streets like an iron tide rolling over the Bituriges and drowning them in blood.
His brother nodded and clambered up the steps of the first loading block, wrenching at the door of the granary and hauling it open. As the door swung wide, the big man sighed. There was enough grain inside to feed an army for weeks, and this was only one of two granaries. If only they could work out how to get the grain out to Vercingetorix…
But they couldn’t. They’d be lucky to make it away themselves, and the Romans must not have the supplies.
Cavarinos watched his brother standing in the doorway and hissed ‘hurry up.’ His eyes were drawn to a narrow side-street where an older man came running around a corner screaming and then pitched forward, face-first, into the dirt, a pilum embedded deep in his back, bent at the end of the iron shaft.
‘They’re coming, Crit. Get it done!’
Critognatos hurriedly touched his torch to a couple of the dry grain sacks and watched them spring into flaming orange life, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder every time he did so. As he left the building, he spotted a small party of legionaries charging down the alley towards the granaries. A tell-tale racket betrayed the approach of more along the main street, too.
‘We have to go!’ he shouted as he jumped from the block. A crack of thunder split the grey air just above the city.
As Cavarinos ducked out of sight of the advancing Romans, Critognatos spotted one of the locals dithering at the corner. ‘You!’
The man ran across, his spear wavering, a look of confusion on his features which only increased as the big Arvernian thrust the sputtering torch into his hand and pointed at the sealed granary.
‘I’ve lit one. You do the other.’
The man stared down at the torch, but nodded fearfully, and in answer to his brother’s shout, Critognatos turned and ran for the northern edge of the city, leaving the granary street and fleeing for his life.
* * * * *
Samognatos looked down at the torch in his hand and then up at the retreating back of the two enemy chiefs as they disappeared. The Romans had paused in the alley to loot a couple of the houses and butcher whoever they found within, the screams testament to their vile activity.
The Condrusi scout had only a moment of doubt. There was always a possibility the Romans would ignore anything he said and simply butcher him as a local. If only Fronto and his singulares were here. With a swallow of his nerves, Samognatos cast aside his spear and scurried over to the water trough opposite the granaries, placed strategically for just such a circumstance. Without a moment’s pause, he thrust the burning torch into the water with a hiss and a column of steam and, leaving it floating, picked up one of the three buckets, scooping a copious quantity of water into it.
The left-hand of the twin granaries was now catching badly, the interior lit by an orange glow. The other building would probably be safe. The torrential rain would save the second granary if the first burned away, but every sack of grain that could be saved was crucial.
Running across the street with his bucket, he leapt up the steps and flung the water into the doorway. A half dozen legionaries appeared from the alleyway nearby, shouting imprecations at the native with the bucket. One drew back his arm, levelling a pilum.
‘Roma Victrix!’ bellowed Samognatos, waving the bucket, the slogan enough to stay the man’s arm. As the soldiers paused, he pointed at the granary. ‘Help me save the grain!’ he bellowed in barely-accented Latin.
* * * * *
Cavarinos and his brother reached the north-western gate to discover that half the city had had the same idea and were crowding through the open portal. The Romans were nominally in control of the gate - they certainly dominated the wall above it - but the sheer number of fleeing Bituriges was like an unstoppable tide and no matter how many the Romans killed, more managed to get past them. The soldiers above were hurling down pila, rocks and other missiles, killing the escapees even outside the walls.
There was nothing for it. The brothers shared a look, took a breath, and then plunged into the crowd, trusting to luck or the gods, each according to their nature.
The next hundred heartbeats for Cavarinos were among the worst in his life. The sweaty shoving and pushing and the smell of expelled urine and faeces from the terrified natives, some of it let loose in blind, bowel-loosening panic, more from the dead who were unable even to fall to the ground as the crowd shoved around them, keeping them upright in death. And among the press, the regular shrieks and messy spatters as a falling missile struck a target and killed a man or a woman or a child mere feet away from them. The blessed moment of relief as they passed from the torrent of rain and missiles, beneath the wall. And then the resuming of both as they reached the outside.
The fleeing Bituriges were everywhere. Their bodies littered the ground outside the gate, lying in mud and blood, washed clean in death by the downpour. Other, living and panicked locals were struggling through the marshy ground. Some were already sinking in the worst parts. And somehow, a small band of cavalry, clearly belonging to the Roman force, had picked its way round to this side. Not enough to help the attack, but enough to kill dozens and dozens of the fleeing unarmed citizens of Avaricon.
Grabbing Critognatos, Cavarinos pulled him away from the main crowd, scurrying along below the walls, slower than his brother would prefer.
‘What are we doing?’
‘Following that,’ Cavarinos replied, pointing down. Critognatos looked down at the muddy ground beneath them and could just make out the twin-pointed cloven-hoof tracks of a young deer. If a deer had been here then its tracks would lead them to safety through the marshes - a trick known by the locals yet forgotten by the mass in their panic.
‘You should have used the curse,’ Critognatos muttered as the pair threaded their way deeper into the mire.
‘On who? Who was responsible for that defeat?’ Cavarinos’ fingers went once again to the leather bag at his belt. Not for the first time, he considered just undoing the thongs and letting the superstitious piece of junk fall away to be lost forever. In this marsh, who would know?
With a sigh, he withdrew his hand and concentrated on following the tracks.
Avaricon was a setback, but not a critical one. After all, Vercingetorix had not wanted to come here in the first place.
And Caesar’s army was gradually weakening as the weeks wore on.