Twenty miles from Gergovia
‘There is to be no killing unless I specifically order it,’ Caesar said, his voice jarred by the gait of his horse. The four legions were perhaps an hour behind, making an impressive pace unencumbered as they were, but once the scouts had announced a sighting of the Aedui cavalry force, Caesar had ridden forth with his own horse which, bolstered beyond the pitiful regular cavalry units by huge swathes of native levies, would at least slightly outnumber the enemy.
Varus nodded his understanding and agreement, casting up a private prayer to Minerva - she who embodied both war and wisdom, that the German unit, who he had deliberately positioned towards the rear, not take it upon themselves to start killing random Gauls.
‘We’re at your command, Caesar.’
With a wave of his hand, the three wings of cavalry began to move, the standard bearers waving their burdens to direct the columns. The first wing, under the young but talented Volcatius Tullus, remained at the valley centre with the commanders and the praetorian guard, splitting into two distinct streams to skirt the large pool that had collected where the valleys met, and then seamlessly forming up again at the western side. The second wing under Silanus moved off along the southern-most of the pigeon-foot-shaped conjunction, riding hard to block off a potential path of retreat towards Bibracte. The final third wing under trusted Quadratus - a man who had proved himself time and again, rode off to the north to barricade the other viable route to Gergovia.
The main force slowed their pace fractionally to allow the other wings to move into position and then, at a signal from Varus, began to move up the valley side, along a wide trail that displayed the ruts caused by years of passing wagon traffic, where the scout who had spotted the enemy sat, just below the crest.
As the commanders and the van of the first wing of cavalry neared the crest, the scout fell in alongside, gesturing with an arm to show where the enemy now were. Without waiting further, Caesar rode over the crest and onto the hillside, Ingenuus, Varus and Volcatius immediately behind him and hundred upon hundred of horsemen in their wake.
The Aedui were an impressive sight. They looked more like an army than Varus had expected. Though he had ridden alongside native cavalry for years, they had been levies fighting with Rome. Those he had encountered who opposed them had almost always been disorganised - a gathering of individual horsemen rather than a unit. This force exhibited the signs of a well-trained army, not a warband.
The foremost Aedui reined in, the army coming to a halt behind them, perhaps confused by the sudden appearance of their enemy with apparently very few men. Then, as more and more cavalry poured over the crest and took positions behind and beside Caesar and his officers, the enemy began to look slightly less smug and certain. By the time someone among the Aedui had registered the approach of Silanus’ wing from their rear-left and of Quadratus to their rear-right, they knew they were hemmed in and it hit them that Caesar was anything but alone.
The general rode forth - closer than Varus approved of - and the senior cavalry officer joined him, as did Ingenuus and half a dozen praetorian riders. At a distance of perhaps thirty paces from the nobles at the head of the force, the general reined in and sat for a long moment, weighing them up.
‘Litavicus of the Aedui is hereby ordered, on the authority of Rome and its proconsul - namely myself - to step forth and answer a charge of treason and usurpation. Will you straighten your spine, betrayer, and answer for your actions, or must you cower cravenly among those you have misled?’
A murmur of angry resistance rose from the enemy mass, and a young nobleman rode out to the front of the force, his head high and proud.
* * * * *
Cavarinos watched, his heart in his mouth. It was almost impossible to believe. Once again, they had achieved their goal smoothly and with minimum fuss, albeit with unpleasant civilian bloodshed, and once again, Caesar had come, seemingly from nowhere, to swipe their victory out from under them. How in the name of all that was reasonable had the Romans learned of this so quickly?
And yet Litavicus still looked smug and proud.
Could he pull this off? He was a consummate actor, for sure, but for Caesar to be here already, the man had to have at least some idea of what had happened, and even the most unobservant enemy would wonder about the wagon train with no Roman personnel around it
The young Aedui noble cleared his throat.
‘Proconsul. It is most gratifying that you ride out personally to meet us, though entirely unnecessary, I can assure you. We are quite capable of finding our way to your camp and we are in no danger on the journey.’
The Roman general kept his face stony, and in the single moment that Cavarinos looked into the man’s eyes, he realised several things. Firstly that Litavicus was doomed and the Aedui here would not be joining the rebel army. Secondly, that the general was everything that was said of him and more. He was easily a match for Vercingetorix who, to this point, had been the most astute commander Cavarinos had ever met. And thirdly - most important of all - that whatever they did, there was almost no chance that the rebels would win this war and free the tribes from Roman control. Even if they crushed the legions utterly, this man would not give in. He would be back the next year with ten more legions. Or twenty. Or a hundred.
In that moment of realisation, even before Caesar had begun his reply, Cavarinos was edging his horse out to the edge of the crowd, where he had a good line of sight to the gully they had just passed and which led north, towards Decetio.
‘You deny your treachery, Litavicus of the Aedui?’ Caesar said quietly.
The young noble looked around at his warriors, clearly weighing up the chances if the two forces came to blows. They were more or less evenly-pitted.
‘You are known to have tortured and murdered our ambassadors, proconsul of Rome. If anyone on this hillside should be accused of treachery, it is the mighty Caesar.’
The general’s mouth turned up at the corner as he watched the gathered horsemen nod.
‘While you weigh up your chances of success, Aeduan, be aware that although your cavalry might be the match of my own, four legions move upon you less than an hour from here, spread out and blocking your route to the rebel leader. You will never reach Gergovia.’ The general looked back over his shoulder and nodded.
Cavarinos, who had neared the edge of the mass of warriors, noticed for a moment that somehow Litavicus’ personal force of guards had gathered here, close to both the edge and the front where the leader conversed with the Roman. The Arvernian watched the Roman column and felt his heart sink as two figures rode forth from the mass. Eporedirix and Viridomarus. Two men trusted by the rebels and who had been intimately involved in their influence over the Aedui. They had not gone into hiding after all, but had instead run to Caesar to keep him informed.
His mind running through all possible avenues of escape, he barely listened as the gathered Aedui began to shout their anger and disgust of Litavicus, who had so clearly duped them into betraying an oath they had long held sacred. The fury at Litavicus changed fluidly, barely-perceptible, to pleas for mercy and understanding aimed at the general.
The mass began to fragment, the more notable of the Aedui renewing their oath to Rome and stepping their horses out from the crowd to submit to Caesar’s judgement. The army was now a lost cause… by the end of this day, everyone on this hillside would either be dead or serving the proconsul. As the Aedui appealed in a clamour, Litavicus nimbly stepped his horse backwards into the tumult, disappearing from direct sight into the press.
Fortunately, while the Aedui were strangers here and relied upon the main trade and droving roads, and the Romans forged their own way in the most direct line, regardless of terrain, Cavarinos was a child of the Arverni, born to these lands and intimate in his knowledge of them. There were a dozen ways or more with which he could reach Gergovia without the Romans finding him. So long as he could get away from the mass of men, he would survive. That, of course, would be the hard part. Cavarinos found he had his hand resting on the pouch at his belt. The curse! How would the war change if Caesar were to die here on this hillside? Everything he had just realised about the inevitability of defeat might be overturned.
His logical mind came down heavily upon these hopes, reminding him that all that he bore in the pouch was a slate tablet etched with spidery text by some mad druid. It may appear sacred and magical to the credulous, but he was absolutely certain that if he used it here and now, nothing would happen… except that the tablet would then be gone. And somehow he felt that the ‘curse’ had a part to play yet.
Still his fingers were beginning to undo the straps on the pouch.
‘Seize the traitor and his men!’ Caesar shouted above the din, urging the Roman forces into action. The crowd of Aedui, huge and sprawling, reacted in numerous ways, some drawing their weapons, assuming their end was nigh, others casting their swords to the turf and holding high their hands. Others appealed to Caesar in desperate shouts, while the more sensible sat quietly, aware that Caesar only wanted his betrayers. Most of this army he sought to bring back to his side.
And a few were leaving as best they could. But they raced either ahead, trying to skirt Caesar’s unit and hurtle into the valley, or back east, in the direction of Bibracte. They did not know the territory. Those who went forward would sure as shit on a wet day ride into the waiting arms of four legions. Those who went back would find themselves surrounded by two wings of Roman cavalry.
Cavarinos’ fingers twitched at the straps on the curse tablet’s container. If it worked, he could potentially end the war here and now. He would die too, of course. Probably slowly and horribly. For if he was to escape this, it would have to be now… and if he did not, who would warn Vercingetorix of what had happened? His mind made up, as practicality won over magic, he snatched his hand back from the leather pouch and wheeled his mount.
There would be a dozen heartbeats - no more - while the chaos of the panicked Aedui riders granted him the freedom he needed. After that, the Romans would begin to instil order, as was their wont, and such chance would evaporate.
Kicking his heels, grateful that they had been riding at a sensible pace this morning and his horse was still strong and energetic, Cavarinos moved among the scattering Aedui, making for the gap between Caesar’s men and those who had come in from the northeast. It was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Some Roman officer nearby shouted out for him to stop, and he almost did so as his horse reached the valley side and he looked down the steep slope, where the turf had come away in clumps to leave loose shale or dirt. His horse baulked at the sight, and so did the rider, but the sound of several Romans moving in his direction decided him. With a deep breath, he urged his mount forward and disappeared down the sharp descent as fast as he dare, knowing that one misstep would likely maim his horse and result in his capture.
It was the longest two-hundred paces of his life, and two Roman cavalry spears, cast from above, came close to ending him on the descent. But finally, blessedly, he reached the bottom and looked up at the hillside, where the Romans waited, pointing at him, unwilling to take that dangerous plunge.
And as he watched, a tiny fragment of relief flooding through his veins, he saw half a dozen more Aedui riders hurtle over the edge at a perilous and idiotic pace. Somehow he knew that one of them was young Litavicus, the others the bodyguard who had gathered at the edge of the crowd ready to protect him.
Two of the riders fumbled the plunge, one separating from his horse and crashing to the slope as his mount tumbled, screaming and snapping, down into the valley, the other staying atop the beast as the pair broke and smashed down the incline, shrieking. Halfway down a Roman spear took a third man in the back. And then the remaining three were in the valley, racing towards Cavarinos. Litavicus did not look chastened or panicked. He did not appear disheartened or angry. The man wore an exhilarated grin, as though he were enjoying himself immensely.
For a brief moment, Cavarinos considered drawing his blade and dispatching the man here and now.
‘I place my safety in the hands of the local,’ smiled Litavicus.
‘Shut up,’ Cavarinos snapped and kicked his horse into life, making for the northern valley and the side ravine that would carry them back to the Elaver River, skirting any likely route of the legions’ advance. So… no Aedui support for now. It was to be hoped more than ever that Vercingetorix knew what he was doing and that Gergovia could hold.
* * * * *
Fronto struggled into his cuirass and hurriedly threw his baldric over his shoulder, racing out of the tent and into the morning sunshine. The camp seemed strange with so few men. Of the six legions they had brought to Gergovia, Caesar had taken four to be certain of turning the Aedui once more. Two had remained here, along with sundry auxilia. Ten thousand men at most laying siege to perhaps eighty thousand. And now, with the foothold camp established on the hill below the oppidum, none of the officers were willing to give up that hard-won position, so the remaining forces had split. The ‘white rocks’ camp held the Eighth legion, while the main camp held the Tenth. A fortress for eight legions, manned by one. The sheer logistics were staggering. It was so far between the ramparts. And the walls themselves were such an extensive circuit that when fully manned there were virtually no men left in the camp itself. No reinforcements or men on rest.
‘What is it?’ he demanded of the tribune - a man whose name he couldn’t even remember. Gods, how he already missed Fabius and Furius.
‘Another assault, sir.’
The irritating, testing attacks had continued in Caesar’s absence, with nine such forays over the previous day, each of which had thinned out the men on the walls slightly, not noticeably to the untrained eye, but Fronto had the numbers on the tablets on his desk. He knew the cost better than anyone, barring the medicus, hard at work in the hospital tent.
‘Rally the men to the nearest rampart and have the ammunition and equipment brought to them by the walking wounded. Which way is this force weighted?’ The forays had tended to focus more on either cavalry elements or the archers, constantly changing and leaving the Roman defenders uncertain as to what to expect next.
‘I think you need to see this, sir.’
Fronto, perturbed by his junior officer’s tone and words alike, hurried across the bare, empty camp until he passed from the area of officers’ and supply tents and reached the main decumanus - the road crossing the camp from east to west - and was afforded a view of the enemy fortress between the lines of empty legionary tents.
‘Shit.’
‘My sentiments precisely, sir. What are your orders?’
Fronto looked up at the oppidum of Gergovia. Even over a mile away it was a daunting and impressive sight. All the more so when it towered above a veritable flood of men streaming down the hillside. From this distance it resembled a swarm of ants on a sunken log.
‘Grab a shield, pray to your gods and make sure you’ve had a shit before they get here, ‘cause you’ll sure as hell have one when they do!’
The tribune’s steady look faltered for a moment.
‘How many do you think there are, sir?’
‘All of them. Get to the rampart. Sound the alert, in case anyone’s asleep or in the latrines.’
As the tribune ran off, Fronto ripped his beautiful blade from its scabbard and stooped to pick up a legionary’s shield where he had helpfully left it standing in the doorway of his tent. Without pause, he ran on for the western rampart. He should have expected this, really. A day of probing and testing, and then the Arverni king would make a full play to remove them, taking advantage of the absence of Caesar and the other legions.
By the time he was clambering up onto the earth bank and taking his place close to both Carbo and Atenos on the parapet, the enemy were closing, the swarm having reached the ground, moving like a plague across the fields, a flood of dark colours amid the gold and green of the rich lands.
‘Steady lads. There’s a lot of them, but they’ve run a mile or more, they’re poorly-equipped and undisciplined, and we have the ramparts.’
Affirmative noises spread along the parapet and Fronto noted with pride a number of the wounded with one good arm or dragging a bad leg making their way to the walls, grappling with their kit. Another thought occurred to him. The gates were weak points - the only points on the perimeter not protected by the double ditch. Things would be easier if they did not have to concentrate on four such positions.
‘Carbo? Get some men to the north and south gates and have them blocked up tight. Then double the men at the east and west ones. But before you do, get someone on a horse and riding for Caesar to tell him what’s happening. I don’t know where they’ll be, but if a rider follows the Bibracte route from here, he’ll find the general somewhere in the first fifteen miles, I reckon. Tell him to get his men back here sharpish if he still wants a camp to sleep in.’
Carbo nodded and began relaying orders as Fronto watched the mass of Arverni and their allies racing for the walls. They were closing rapidly, the cavalry out front, peeling off to move around the camp. That rider would have to get going post-haste, else he would be trapped in the camp. He would have to trust to the ever-competent Carbo for that. Fronto had his own troubles to attend to.
‘Here we go,’ he shouted, watching the mass of men racing towards the ditches. Here and there an archer would pause to release an arrow, though they were too distant yet to present a danger.
And then something unexpected happened. The running warriors, charging at walls, heedless of the ditches, lilia pits and artillery aimed at them, pulled up suddenly in a line and dropped to a knee behind their shields in a very Roman-looking formation as a wave of archers, bows already nocked and half-drawn, arrived behind them and lifted and loosed their missiles in a swift, very haphazard moment before dropping back, the warriors rising once more and running again.
Fronto ducked the arrows that sheeted across the open ground at the ramparts. The manoeuvre had been too hurried and careless to aim well, but the man behind this attack had sacrificed accuracy for speed and volume, as well as surprise - and he’d made the right choice. Of the thousand or so arrows loosed, less than a hundred were on target, but that was enough. Men all along the parapet shrieked and vanished backwards or grunted at a glancing blow, an impaled foot or a punctured shield pinned to their arm. The damage was intense.
Of course the legionaries were prepared now, and subsequent missile attacks would have much less effect, but the damage was already done. As always, while Fronto watched the huge force of Gauls crossing the ditches, falling foul of the lilia with broken, impaled and shredded legs, thrown back by the punch of scorpion bolts and occasional arrows and slingshots, he cast up a brief but heartfelt prayer to Fortuna that his young wife and two sons would see him again. That Lucilia would not one day have cause to travel to Gergovia to gaze down at a rough battlefield memorial marker… a sword or personal effect hanging on a simple stake marked with his name.
Next to him, Atenos gave the order to release pila, and a thousand javelins rose slightly and fell into the mass of bodies struggling across the ditches. The effect was slaughter, and yet the kills made barely a dent on the force attacking the camp.
This is going to be evil to hold, Fronto thought to himself, willing Caesar to hurry. We can do it, but not for too long.
The first man reached the rampart, scrambling up the earth bank and trying to bring a spear up to jab at Fronto, but the legate simply batted the shaft aside and drove down with his blade, slamming it into the man’s neck and wrenching it back out to the side in a welter of blood.
Next to him, Fronto saw Atenos, shieldless, rip a spear from his assailant’s hand and turn it back on him, jabbing him in the face while bellowing something incomprehensible in his native Gallic tongue. Funny how he was standing beside the freest of Gauls fighting off other Gauls who believed that driving out Rome made them free.
Sunset, he reckoned. We can hold ‘til sunset. After that…
* * * * *
Cavarinos regarded the oppidum, a little over a mile to the south, its bulk looming oppressively in the half-light. The sun had vanished below the horizon, but still played on the very crest of Gergovia, illuminating roofs and towers. His eyes roved east and played across the scene nearby. No Roman or Gaul was paying the slightest attention to him or the three Aedui who rode with him, for a struggle was underway for a large Roman camp that lay halfway between the mountain and the river. The Romans were in trouble, but they were clearly holding their own, despite the horribly uneven numbers on the opposing sides.
All that would change, of course. The four fleeing riders had seen Caesar’s force several times over the last few hours. They must have received urgent word of trouble to be so quick on their return, for they were almost keeping pace with the desperate riders. Of course, the Romans could just march in a straight line, while Cavarinos, despite having fled with haste, had been forced to widely circle the Roman legions before heading back south to the oppidum.
Those legions themselves were perhaps three hours away still, but Caesar was only half an hour distant, travelling ahead with his enormous cavalry contingent, now bolstered by the Aedui who had so recently been riding to aid Vercingetorix… curse Litavicus and his involved trickery!
The attack on the large camp was doomed as soon as Caesar put in an appearance, but it would at least keep the Romans busy and tired in the meantime. Cavarinos sighed and rode wearily up the slope toward the oppidum gate, where he was sure someone would be able to direct him to the quarters of the Arvernian king.
Time to sort a few things out, including the danger of putting their trust in this young headstrong Aeduan, who was perhaps too clever for his own good. And time to decide what to do with this tablet that was more of a curse to carry than anything else.
* * * * *
Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus leaned on the windowsill of the house in which he, Brutus and Aristius had spent the past two nights. The oppidum of Rodonna was the southernmost of Aedui strongholds, on the very edge of Arverni territory. It had been four days since Priscus had finally located Brutus and the Narbonensis garrison, and he had immediately ordered the men directly to Gergovia, knowing that they were strong enough to move through the land unopposed under the command of their veteran centurions. The three officers, however, had decided to ride out ahead for Caesar’s army and inform them of the relief force’s approach. While two legions and a garrison could safely consider crossing Arverni lands, three men on horseback were less sure, and so they had ridden north for the security of Aedui territory, where they could turn west and ride for Gergovia among their allies.
A stop overnight at Rodonna had been a welcome proposition after so long travelling in the open, and the oppidum, which nestled on a low hill in a bend in the Liger river that protected it on three sides, was comfortable, even for a Roman. A site of Gallo-Roman trade for years, it had most of the amenities they required, and even access to good wine. The occupants had a good command of Latin, and there were rarely less than twenty Romans in the place, loading ships on the river or dealing with trade convoys.
It had been perfect.
Apart from the reception they had received.
The merchants had sheltered in Rodonna from the violence that had erupted all across Aedui lands. Word was that the leaders of Bibracte had thrown off their connection with Rome and sided with the rebels. A huge cavalry force meant for Caesar had changed sides and made for Gergovia. The entire tribe’s territory was in a state of upheaval that resembled the brutal civil war Priscus remembered so well a couple of decades earlier. The merchants said that some oppida and cities and towns continued to hold to their oath with Rome - mainly the ones grown fat from Roman trade. Others had gone over to the rebels and had massacred any Roman they could find, plundering the goods of civilian merchants and soldiers alike. And the situation changed almost hourly, with some towns flipping back and forth in their allegiance with eye-blurring rapidity.
Plainly, it was not safe to set foot out in the countryside. It seemed, in fact, that Aedui land had suddenly become considerably more dangerous than Arverni territory, most of which was now burned and depopulated anyway.
Consequently, the three officers had decided to stay the one night and then head back south and rejoin the forces marching for Gergovia.
But then trouble had come to Rodonna.
Realistically, of course, they had to be grateful that the leaders of this oppidum had remained staunchly in favour of Rome, offering succour to the desperate local Roman merchants. But with the morning sun had come the enemy, trapping the officers here.
The Aedui rebels - a force of perhaps five hundred horse and foot under a big thug who had rather pretentiously named himself Brennus - had settled outside the oppidum’s walls. Before anyone could arrange an evacuation, Aedui archers had moved along the opposite banks with jars of pitch and fire arrows and had set the ships on the river alight, removing all hope for the trapped Romans.
‘Do we go?’
‘Someone has to parlay,’ Brutus shrugged.
‘It might end better if that someone was an Aedui noble, though,’ Priscus replied. ‘One of the leaders of Rodonna, say?’
‘Apparently the demand was aimed at the Romans here, though,’ Aristius sighed.
‘It should be you, then’ Priscus replied casually.
Aristius blinked in surprise. ‘Me? I’m the lowest ranking officer here. I’m a foot soldier compared to you two, sirs.’
‘You’re able and clever. But most importantly here, you’re an unknown. The men outside are Aedui. They may well have heard of me. Hell, I’ve been drunk in taverns in their capital more than once. And Brutus is a name known from Spain to Judea. If Brutus or I reveal ourselves we might well become sought-after bargaining chips. Or at least our heads might. They might burn the whole town just to get to us. You, on the other hand, are unknown enough that you might be able to reason with them.’
Aristius sighed. ‘But we will not submit to them, I presume?’
‘Shit, no. I know what’ll happen if we do.’
‘Come on, then,’ the young tribune straightened, making for the door and jamming his helmet on his head. The three men stepped out of the comfortable lodgings, donated to them by an Aeduan merchant of means, and onto the street that curved southeast to the rampart which sealed off the promontory, surrounded by a deep trench. The gates were firmly closed and the parapet lined by warriors from the oppidum, torches burning at intervals, as well as buckets of water, in the event that those rebel fire arrows be turned from the ships upon the township itself.
The enemy were gathered in small camps across the isthmus, just out of bow range, one group of half a dozen richly-dressed noblemen standing opposite the gate, bedecked in stolen Roman gear and looking smug.
The twenty or so Roman merchants were gathered in the square inside the gate, not permitted by the Aedui to stand atop the walls, their beasts of burden gathered nearby for access, should they need them. They broke into a tumult of questions and demands as the three officers appeared, traipsing down the street toward the gate.
‘We’ll stay out of sight,’ Brutus said quietly, ignoring the civilians entirely.
‘Try not to get stuck with arrows,’ added Priscus helpfully.
Aristius stepped up to the top of the bank and looked down at the enemy on the far side of the wide ditch.
‘I am Marcus Aristius. Tribune of the…’ he paused. He belonged to no legion, and mention of the Narbonensis garrison might not be politic right now. ‘Tribune in the army of the proconsul Gaius Julius Caesar. By what right do you bring threats to the city of Rodonna, its people, and the peaceful merchants of the republic who trade here?’
Priscus and Brutus nodded at one another approvingly.
A voice issued out from below and beyond the walls, spitting each word as though the use of Latin befouled his tongue. ‘In respect of the long decades of peace between your people and mine, Roman, I am willing to grant you safe passage out of Aedui lands. You may leave Rodonna and ride unmolested until you find friends. But if you raise a hand or a blade against our people, we will cut you all down. This offer is made only this once, and to all Romans in the city, be they soldiers like you, or fat merchants like the ones who cower. I will have your answer now.’
Aristius took a step back and peered down at the others. Priscus and Brutus shared a look and both shook their heads. ‘I don’t care how trustworthy he sounds and how noble his offers,’ Priscus announced quietly, ‘the moment anyone steps out of sight of these walls, they’re going to have their heads struck from their shoulders, scooped out and used as a vase. Do you hear that twang in his voice? That’s the strain of keeping up a lie. To leave here is suicide.’
‘But he promised,’ one of the merchants butted in, hopefully.
Brutus flashed a look at the man. ‘I heard no promise. Just an offer.’
Above them, Aristius cleared his throat. ‘I heard only an offer, Aeduan. No promise of safety for the merchants here.’
The Aeduan leader snorted and spat. ‘I give you my oath.’
‘On what?’
‘On whatever you like,’ snapped the man. Again, Priscus and Brutus shared that look. ‘He just got a little bit more strained. He’s had to lie about an oath and that annoys him.’
‘But the Aedui always stand by their oaths!’ one of the merchants frowned.
‘Tell that to the bodies of Romans scattered across the land between here and Bibracte with spears in their back and all their worldly goods now decorating Aedui warriors.’
‘Who are you to deny us our freedom?’ grumbled another merchant. Aristius frowned down at him, but Priscus turned with a shrug. ‘We’re not stopping you. We won’t be leaving, but you’re welcome to, though I heartily recommend that you don’t. That mad bastard out there is just waiting to peel you alive.’
A brief argument broke out among the merchants, and Aristius cleared his throat. ‘Will you willingly grant passage to a number of merchants if they decide to leave?’
There was a long pause as the man clearly weighed up his options, and a brief confab between him and his cronies, and finally he nodded. ‘Your merchants may leave unmolested.’
‘You hear that?’ one of the civilians said, hopefully.
‘We should go now.’
‘But I’ve got all my coin back in the house.’
‘Better saving your life than your fortune,’ retorted another.
‘And your coin won’t help you when you’re crawling around the blood-soaked grass looking for your own face,’ Priscus snapped harshly.
‘You don’t understand,’ the newly-impoverished merchant grumbled as he reached for his pony which stood with the others at the roadside. ‘These people will not betray us. We’ve traded with them for many years. We have made each other rich. It’s you they want to kill - the army. Get out of my way.’
The portly trader strode purposefully towards them, leading his beast, and the two officers shrugged and stepped out of the way. A further eleven men joined him, retrieving their animals and approaching the gate, the others standing back and looking undecided for only a moment, glancing at the officers and clearly deciding upon the safety of thick walls.
Aristius paused for a moment until he was sure that all the merchants desiring to leave were gathered, and then cleared his throat. ‘Twelve men have accepted your gracious offer. May your gods favour you for your honour,’ he added, in the hope that the nudge might cause the man to exhibit some of that honour in the coming hours.’
The men at the gate lifted the bar and began to swing the portal open. Brutus took a step forward. ‘Think about this. Are you sure you want to put your lives in the hands of a man who now follows the rebels?’
He was met with silence as the disaffected merchants turned their backs on him and mounted up, riding slowly through the gate and across the causeway that traversed the ditch. The gate closed behind them and despite their wishing to remain hidden, Brutus and Priscus removed their helmets and climbed the rampart high enough to observe events beyond.
It came as no shock to either of them when the twelve merchants, just passing through the lines of the enemy, were suddenly set upon and pulled from their saddles. In moments, as the three officers and the town’s warriors watched, the twelve men were lined up on their knees, bawling out their fears. The din of panic and tears gradually diminished with each head taken, and then the twelve grisly burdens were them affixed to the tips of spears and driven into the ground at regular intervals facing the walls.
‘Looks like we’ll be staying for a while,’ Priscus noted and turning, strode back down to the street below.
* * * * *
Varus rose in the saddle, shouting encouragement to his riders. From the moment Caesar’s cavalry force, now some fifteen or sixteen thousand strong, had crested the bank of the Elaver River, they had seen the rebel forces seething like ants around the camp on the low rise some two miles distant. Caesar had waited only until a thousand men had filtered across the recently-reconstructed bridge over the Elaver, built simultaneously with the camp for the influx of supplies and using the original Gallic piles, before releasing his men to the camp’s aid.
Varus looked left and right. The units held to a loose formation at best. Few of the men who had made it across to form the vanguard were his usual force. No matter how much the officers had tried to maintain the discipline of unit formations, others had pushed in ahead, desperate to see action - Aedui warriors who felt betrayed and cheated by the rebels and sought revenge, and the ever-present Germanic cavalry, who smelled fight and bloodshed and were not going to miss the opportunity to take part.
And so here he was, riding with two hundred of his own men - a few regular alae and the rest formed of Remi and Mediomatrici levies. To his left, two or three hundred Aedui raced to get ahead and start the blood-letting, yelling imprecations and their rather forthright opinion on the parentage and ancestry of the Arverni. To his right, the Germans thundered on, drooling at the thought of the killing to come. He shuddered at the sight of the nearest of them, a necklace of finger bones clattering as he bounced in the saddle.
His focus fell once more upon the main camp, where the rebels seemed to have registered the cavalry thundering across the ground towards them and without pause for discussion, the enemy began to desert their siege, racing back around the camp corners in the direction of the oppidum.
Booing and honking suggested that the word had reached a musician or commander, who had sounded the recall. There was little hope of Varus’ cavalry engaging the enemy, with the exception of cutting down a few tardy fleeing infantry, as they approached the now unassailed camp rampart to the east. Glancing to the side, he spotted his standard bearer and musician, and called out to them. ‘Signal the halt!’
The signaller waved his standard, while the musician put out the call on his tuba, the central cavalry force drawing up sharply and reforming into units. The newly-acquired Aedui paid absolutely no heed, racing on in the wake of the fleeing rebels, rounding the camp’s southern edge, their desperate desire to kill echoed by the Germanic warriors, who charged, snarling and yelping, around the northern corner.
Varus shook his head. Trying to call them back would be fruitless. Besides, it might be nice to harry the bastards back up the slopes and pick off a few, and it would feed both the vengeance of the Aedui and the bloodlust of the Germanics and perhaps calm them for a while.
‘Where the hell were you lot?’
The cavalry commander looked up into the late evening light, the sun now sunk into the west and the sky an inky shade of indigo. The shape above the east gate could have been anyone, but Varus knew without a doubt who it was anyway.
‘Fronto. Nice to see you. Hope you mucked out my stable areas while we were gone.’
* * * * *
‘What do you suppose is going on?’
Priscus roused himself from the table where he had been tearing off chunks of bread, throwing down damsons and chewing sweet, tangy apples grown in the orchards of the oppidum. Since the unpleasant display outside yesterday morning, the three officers had spoken to the town’s leaders and had relocated to a house close to the walls, where a window afforded them a view across the ramparts and of the enemy encamped beyond the ditch.
Throughout yesterday the rebel force had sporadically grown, with three fresh groups coming in to bolster their numbers, bringing them to an estimated twelve or thirteen hundred now. Moreover, each group that came in had brought with them captives. Roman merchants were seemingly the prime choice, though they had brought in Aedui civilians and farmers who had refused to bow to the rebels and had professed themselves still allies of Rome. Another prime choice seemed to be civilians from the hovels and farmsteads in the surrounding mile or two, who were officially residents under the aegis of the council of Rodonna.
And over the day, more of these were dealt with, beheaded and put on display before the walls. A few who particularly angered this Brennus and his cronies were brutally tortured, their cries of agony ringing out over the oppidum through the dark hours.
Escape had seemed impossible for the trapped Romans, and Priscus had expressed more than once his exasperation at the very good chance that he would have to sit out the war in this place, for he would only be free to leave when Caesar had beaten the rebels.
Aristius stood leaning on the window, watching the plain below, and waved Priscus and Brutus across. ‘Something is definitely happening.’
The three men squeezed into the space to achieve a view, Priscus still chewing his apple.
The camps of the enemy outside the walls were bursting into life, men grabbing weapons and armouring up. It took only a moment for the three men’s ears to catch the distant rumble of horses, and they watched intently as a small column of riders emerged from the woodlands to the northeast, perhaps four-hundred strong and displaying boar and wolf standards common to the Aedui.
‘More allies?’ Aristius murmured?
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Brutus breathed. ‘Would they rush to arm themselves for allies?’
‘But they’re not lining up for defence, either.’
The three men watched with interest as the column of riders approached the camp, reined in briefly to speak to a warrior at the edge, and then rode for the central tents where the rebel leader Brennus stood, unarmoured but with his sword belted to his side and the plain blue of his tunic offset by gold torcs and other rich jewellery.
The leader of the cavalry stepped his horse forward for a moment, and spoke in their strange tongue, addressing Brennus. The three Romans could not hear the conversation and even if they could, they would have found the language incomprehensible, but the effect was fascinating to watch.
Whatever the new leader had said, Brennus reacted as though he had been slapped in the face. The tidings spread out from that reaction like ripples across a pond, the encamped rebels seemingly stunned as they heard this news.
‘Interesting,’ Priscus noted. ‘Might be a good idea to get over to the walls.’
It was only a short jog from the house to the oppidum’s ramparts, the house chosen for its proximity as well as its view, and the three men were climbing the earth bank only moments later. Aristius moved to the front as the default spokesman for the group, the two more senior officers keeping slightly back to remain out of the limelight.
The officers blinked in surprise. They had been mere heartbeats out of sight of the enemy, yet they had seemingly missed something important, for now Brennus had retreated to the doorway of his tent, his sword drawn, his close kin gathered around him protectively. The newly-arrived horsemen had surrounded the leader’s tent, and spears had been levelled.
‘I like the look of this,’ grinned Priscus.
A man among the riders shouted something at the defensive knot of warriors and perhaps half of them threw down their weapons and stepped aside in surrender. The rest bristled. Eight men, including Brennus, now faced off against more than a score of cavalry. Whatever had happened, the rest of the rebel camp seemed disinclined to rush to their leader’s aid and sheathed their weapons swiftly, bowing their heads to the horsemen who were now filtering throughout the elongated camp. Another noble among the horsemen shouted out an order and half a dozen of his men moved along the ditch, gathering up the spears and the heads they bore and taking them to the central area.
An argument seemed to have broken out there and was raging between Brennus and the leader of the horsemen. Something that was said acted as a trigger and suddenly the warriors around the rebel raised their swords defensively.
The new arrival raised his hand, barking out an order, and almost casually, the horsemen around them cast their spears at the defenders, killing or maiming all but three instantly, drawing swords to replace their spears even before the bodies had hit the ground. Realising their plight, the remaining two of Brennus’ guards cast down their weapons and while they attempted to step away, the trapped rebel chief gave an angry shout and stabbed one of his former guards in the back.
With a contemptuous snarl, the cavalry leader took advantage of the rebel’s posture, his sword low and still in the fallen man’s back, and rode his horse forwards, knocking Brennus aside. As the shocked former-rebel hit the ground, yelping in pain, the new arrival took to riding his horse back and forth across the prone form almost in the theatrical manner of a Roman cavalry display team, each time the hooves smashing the bones of the beaten man.
Priscus watched in amazement as the man who had trapped them here was swiftly turned to pulp, his men staring in horror, the grisly trophies they had taken yesterday cast into a fire where they rendered down in the heat and stank out the plain. As the Romans waited with bated breath, the riders began to dispose of all the poor captives’ bodies in the flames.
Once the camp seemed to have settled, the new horsemen’s leader stepped his mount forth, leaving glistening red hoof prints across the grass, and approached the causeway before the gate.
‘I wish to speak to the magistrate in charge of this oppidum.’
Priscus nudged Aristius, who frowned back at him.
‘I think this is yours,’ the prefect replied, and Aristius shrugged and stepped to the wall.
‘My name is Marcus Aristius, senior tribune in the army of the Proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul and Illyricum, Julius Caesar. If, as seems to be the case, you are an opponent of Brennus, then that makes you a friend of Rome, am I correct?’
The horseman bowed his head.
‘I am Iudnacos of Bibracte, Cotus’ man and a loyal ally of Rome. I come to remove this pestilence from our lands and to affirm once more our friendship with Rodonna and the noble magistrates here who held tight to their oath despite the danger to themselves. Rumour circulates concerning the Aedui pledging support to the rebel Vercingetorix. I come to quash those rumours. Ignoble elements among our tribe seek to bring this situation about, but the vast majority of the Aedui maintain our oaths in good faith. That force of thousands claimed to have defected to the Arverni are, in fact, now bound for Caesar’s camp.’
‘I am pleased to hear this, Iudnacos, and your arrival is timely, so say the least.’
The nobleman nodded his head in acknowledgement.
‘I had not thought to see soldiers here, only a few merchants. I am pleased, however, to find this. Now that this scum are under control, I would ask a boon of you, Aristius, tribune of Rome.’
‘Ask away, though I have little to give at this moment.’
Iudnacos straightened in the saddle. ‘We wish to send an embassy to Caesar, confirming our oath and denouncing those among us who would fall in with the rebel Arverni. Such ambassadors would likely be better received coming to the general in the company of such an officer. Would you accompany our nobles to your commander’s camp at Gergovia?’
Aristius paused, glancing aside at Priscus and Brutus. ‘What do you think? He seems genuine.’
‘No tremor in his voice. And he dealt with Brennus appropriately. I suspect he’s on the level. And even if the rebel elements in the Aedui are on the wane, it would still be handy to have an allied cavalry escort to the general. I say we accept.’
As Aristius stepped forth to the wall and confirmed the matter with Iudnacos, Brutus and spoke quietly behind the walls. ‘How far is Gergovia from here?’
‘Somewhere between forty and fifty miles, I believe,’ Priscus replied.
‘And how fast do the native cavalry travel?’
‘As fast as our cavalry, if not faster. So long as they don’t have cause to delay and no baggage train or infantry with them, we could just about make Caesar’s camp by sundown, if we rode hard and didn’t spare the horses.’
‘Then let’s do that. I’ve got plenty of money with me. I’ll purchase spare horses from the traders here before we go.’
‘Good. Go do it now. I’ll arrange matters with Aristius and our new friend.’
As Brutus nodded and stepped back down the slope, Priscus heaved in a deep sigh of relief. It would be good to get back to the army.
* * * * *
Caesar leaned forward over his table and steepled his fingers, Antonius looming at the tent’s edge in his usual pose, leaning back with folded arms.
‘How troubled do you think the Aedui state is, then?’
Priscus shrugged wearily in his seat, wishing the general would hurry the meeting along so that he could bathe, eat, crap and sleep, and not necessarily in that order. ‘It was trouble, but from what Iudnacos says, it sounds like things are starting to settle. There are clearly elements that are still at work against us, but it seems their main push to turn the whole tribe away has failed.’
‘Do you believe it will require a military presence?’
‘I doubt it. I toyed with the idea of sending word to the Narbonensis force and having them head north into Aedui territory, but I assume you would prefer that they come straight here. I reckon from what Brutus says, this place is about the only Arverni settlement they haven’t hit.’
Brutus was having distinct difficulty keeping his eyes open at the back, but Aristius nodded. ‘We came within sight a few times, but the place defies the attack of any army without engineers or siege weapons.’
Caesar nodded. ‘I think that it would be best, yes, for the army to join up. And it shows our allies within the Aedui that we have faith in them if we leave them to put their own house in order without garrisoning legionaries on them. We are in position now to put an end to this Arverni rebel. Our forces are bolstered with new Aedui horse, and in a matter of days we will have your Narbonensis garrison and the new legionaries.’
Caesar looked over to Fronto, who sat wearily slouched in another chair, rubbing his cheek where the earlier bruising had almost gone but a fresh line from an enemy spear had taken three stitches to close. ‘Fronto? I would like the camp’s fabricae to get to work putting together standards and eagles. Would you see to that? Our new recruits from Cisalpine Gaul have been proved enough on the field of battle now. It is time they took their eagles as the Fifth and Sixth, since their namesakes in Spain have just been disbanded.’
Fronto nodded.
‘Very well. I will grant a full pardon against any treacherous behaviour to any member of the Aedui who is willing to retake their oath. We will trust them to settle their own state, and I will not demand any further levies or supplies from them for the moment. You’re all dismissed. I suggest you get some rest while I speak to this Iudnacos and his ambassador friends and work through the matter.’
The assembled officers rose and bowed, leaving Caesar and Antonius alone in the tent.
Iudnacos waited patiently outside in the gathering gloom with his noble allies, Ingenuus’ praetorians standing protectively around them. The Aeduan nodded as the officers passed, and Priscus threw a weary arm about Fronto’s shoulder.
‘You seem to have had a bit of a ruckus,’ he noted, pointing at Fronto’s cheek.
‘And you smell like a bear used you as a sponge-stick,’ Fronto grunted back. ‘I reckon we all need a cup or twelve of wine and a catch up.’
Aristius brightened, and Brutus even managed to look slightly more alert.
‘Think I ought to find the wash-tent and clean the bear-arse off myself first,’ Priscus muttered.
‘Later. We need to catch up before Antonius finishes his meeting and gets wind that I’ve cracked a jar. If he turns up with a mug, we might as well write off the night’s sleep and start the hangover now!’
The four men paused at a tent corner, where they came into sight of the looming mountain of Gergovia.
‘Jove, but that place is big,’ Aristius hissed.
‘Aren’t they all,’ Priscus said in a blasé manner. ‘Once you’ve stormed one oppidum, you’ve stormed them all.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ Fronto replied. ‘This place is different. I’ve a bad feeling about Gergovia.’
‘You and your bad feelings,’ snorted Priscus derisively. ‘Come on. Let’s get your wine open.’
The three tired officers stepped on, but for a moment Fronto paused and looked up in the inky evening. Never had Gergovia looked less conquerable to him than at that very moment. He reached into his tunic and gripped the hanging bronze pendant of Fortuna tight.
‘Come on, slow-arse. We need you to find the wine!’ shouted Priscus.