Lucterius stared at the relief army’s commander with wide, disbelieving eyes.
‘You cannot be serious?’
‘I am most serious,’ Commius replied, his face stolid and straight. ‘I have seen the might of Rome first-hand many times and if they are to be defeated they must be taken by surprise. Think back on the few times the Romans have suffered in our lands, Lucterius… most recently at Gergovia where your insane charge and the mix-up with the Aedui cavalry led to their defeat. The destruction of Sabinus and Cotta’s legion two years ago by Ambiorix’s surprise attack. Even the battles when the Romans first encountered the Belgae… the Nervii almost finished Caesar by springing a trap. Not once have the Romans lost a fight in our lands when they were prepared for it.’
Lucterius ground his teeth in the silence. Nothing he could say would refute those facts for what they were: the plain truth. And yet to do nothing was to lose anyway. Beside him, Molacos, his nephew and second in command glowered, his already skeletal face twisted into a rictus mask.
‘What do you intend then, might I ask?’
Commius shrugged as he shot a faintly annoyed glance at the outspoken Cadurci chief. ‘We simply cannot attack those defences. We will lose, and with us all hope for the tribes will die. No; an attack is out of the question. What we must do is starve the Romans. They will have supplies within their lines, but only a finite supply, and if they send out foraging units… well, those we can defeat. We will besiege Caesar. We have adequate numbers to harry them if they sortie, and if they choose to come out in force to deal with us, the army in Alesia will be able to attack from the rear. But unless the Romans leave those defences in force, we will wait and let them die of hunger.’
The Cadurci chieftain felt the faint trembles of anger and fought to control his temper, keeping his voice controlled and level. ‘I was in the oppidum before I came to Bibracte, and the Mandubii had inadequate supplies in storage even for their own town. If you starve the Romans, the army in the oppidum will die first, and you cannot waste eighty thousand of the best men the tribes have to offer; men who have already been tried and tested against Caesar this summer.’
‘We have no other choice, Lucterius!’ snapped Commius. ‘I will not commit to a suicide attack on those defences. Now stop pestering me and see to the quartering of your men.’
With a last glare of loathing at the army’s leader, Lucterius turned his horse and trotted off across the lush grass, the late evening sun gleaming between the trees atop the hill - a sun currently bathing the town of Alesia across the plain in its last golden rays. The Cadurci and Arverni, both serving under his command, were busy making camp in a position with a good view of the oppidum and the Roman siege works some half mile to the north. In the midst of the activity, his second-in-command, Molacos, was busy honing a gleaming blade with his whetstone. This newly-appointed infantry commander was one of the best in the army and a man Lucterius knew of old. A hunter by trade, he was as sharp and accurate as an arrow, as quiet and deadly as a snake. He also was loyal to the hilt.
If anyone could do it, it was Molacos.
Lucterius slipped from the saddle, tied his horse to one of the hastily-erected hitching posts, and wandered over to the Cadurci hunter, stepping close and speaking in low, hushed, tones.
‘Our illustrious leader will not attack the Romans.’
Molacos simply spat on the ground, his face twisting beyond its normal sour grimace at the news.
‘Precisely. The leaders here are largely a credulous lot and they’ve been put off my command by the Aedui. As long as Commius is in charge they will listen to him and there’s nothing we can do. If we want to act, we must change things.’
‘You wish me to kill Commius?’ murmured the hunter, running his finger down the blade’s edge with a hint of satisfaction.
‘No. It may come to that, of course, but I do not think that will help our cause at the moment. I need you to get past the Romans and tell Vercingetorix of the problem. His should be the decision. He is our king, after all.’
The hunter nodded and put away his whetstone, sheathing his blade with an air of regret.
* * * * *
Cavarinos reached the rampart top above the oppidum’s north-west gate and peered down into the darkness. Irritably he removed his cloak and draped it over the wall. The temperature this evening was troublesome, not quite warm enough for a cloak, but with enough of a bite to chill a man in just a tunic.
‘What are they up to?’
The warrior who had called him to the parapet creased his brow. ‘A scout or a hunter, perhaps? They have scouts patrolling from time to time, and foragers across the lowest slopes.’
Cavarinos nodded. He’d seen the Romans’ auxiliary cavalry - good men of the tribes fighting for the enemy - ranging around the flat ground inside the defences once or twice. Far from a constant presence, they were simply small units of half a dozen men who did circuits of the oppidum every now and then before returning to their fortifications. Additionally, both legionaries and auxiliaries would range inside the lines hunting rabbits and birds, and on very fortuitous occasions a boar or young deer. But none of them - scouts or foragers - had yet had the temerity to advance up the slope towards the Gallic army.
Yet this man was coming mysteriously close to the walls.
‘Go and inform the king,’ he said to the warrior. ‘Ask he and Vergasillaunus to join me.’
As the warrior jogged off to the nearby house that had been requisitioned by Vercingetorix, Cavarinos watched the figure with interest. The man wore drab, dark clothes in the Gallic fashion as well as a brown wool cloak. A bow jutted from one shoulder, confirming his role as a hunter. He was brazenly striding up towards the walls, still. Along the parapet, half a dozen of the defenders plucked arrows from their stock and nocked them, raising their bows in readiness but leaving a little slack in the string until the last moment.
Long heartbeats passed as the man struggled with the steeper section of the slope, the bare rock showing through the scrub grass and making the approach treacherous. Presently, Vercingetorix and his cousin arrived and climbed to the gate top, the king’s temporary residence having been selected specifically to be close to the western promontory for convenience and speed. Cavarinos bowed his head in greeting.
‘My king.’
‘What do we have here?’ mused Vercingetorix as he looked down at the figure, now close to the walls and in clear, plain sight.
‘Auxiliary huntsman by the looks of it,’ replied Vergasillaunus, and the three commanders stood in silence at the parapet and watched the figure reach the level grass twenty paces from the rampart and stop, hands on his hips as he heaved air into his straining lungs. ‘Pretty one, isn’t he?’
‘Who are you?’ Vercingetorix called in a clear, commanding voice, the squeaking of bats adding counterpoint.
‘I am Molacos, chosen man of the Cadurci,’ the hunter growled, his rictus face dark.
The Cadurci?
‘And how come you to be standing here thus?’
Molacos shrugged back the dark cloak and indicated the bow at his shoulder. ‘The only route through the fortifications I could find was to slip among their foragers out on the plains and then join those moving inside the walls. With the arrival of the relief force, the Romans are doing all they can to bring in final extra supplies of meat, and their control over the auxiliary levy is less secure than it should be in the circumstances.’
Cavarinos nodded as he looked at the man with interest. His experience of the Roman army so far suggested that such a task would be far from easy. Molacos must be cunning, indeed. The king gestured to his companions now that the identity of the stranger had been discerned, and the three commanders descended the oppidum’s wall and made their way out through the gate as it creaked open for them, bringing them face to face with the Cadurci hunter, who held forth his hand, palm up, displaying Lucterius’ family ring to confirm his identity.
‘What is so urgent to risk a good man in such a manner?’ the king continued, frowning. ‘We await the deployment of the reserves and will mirror it from the oppidum. One good attack from both sides and we will crush a section of their defences and unite the armies.’
The tired, shaking warrior straightened with a sour expression.
‘There will be no push from the reserves.’
‘What?’ The king frowned, folding his arms. ‘What is Lucterius thinking?’
The man sagged slightly. ‘My chieftain commands only our own contingent, now. The leaders in Bibracte bequeathed command of the army to Commius of the Atrebates, considering my chief not suited to the task.’
Cavarinos blinked. ‘Commius? But he’s Caesar’s lapdog; has been for years.’
The look on the weary man’s face suggested that he shared the opinion, and he sighed. ‘Nevertheless, that man is in command of the army on the hill, my king, and he is unwilling to commit to a fight. He considers the Roman defences too strong.’
Vercingetorix rubbed his hand through his hair angrily. ‘The lunatic. What use does he think he can be standing on the hill and watching us starve?’ He turned to Cavarinos. ‘Go to them. Drop Commius on his backside if you have to, but remove him from command and take over yourself… along with Lucterius, of course.’
Cavarinos nodded wearily, but Vergasillaunus was shaking his head and reaching out to stop Cavarinos as he stepped forward.
‘What?’ Vercingetorix frowned, turning to his cousin.
‘Cavarinos would be more than competent to command, but very likely those men would no more accept command from Cavarinos than from Lucterius. He is a well known leader among our own, but not among the other tribes. Only you or I would have adequate authority to overrule Commius, and you are needed here. I will make it back through the Romans to the reinforcements and help Lucterius command the force there.’
Though the king was shaking his head in refusal, already Vergasillaunus was reaching out and gesturing for the hunter to pass over the bow and cloak. As the man began to divest himself of his hunting kit, the king’s cousin stripped himself of his jewellery and accoutrements. His tunic and trousers were not dissimilar to Molacos’, though finer, and he should be able to pass easily enough for the other. After all, how likely were the Romans to be able to tell the difference between two lowly native hunters?
‘I presume there is a watch word?’
The hunter nodded as he handed over the greased wool cloak. ‘Dementes was the word for the night.’
Cavarinos rolled his eyes ‘The crazy ones. That figures. I cannot imagine how you managed to obtain their password, but I hope you covered your tracks well.’
The Cadurci hunter nodded professionally and, as Vergasillaunus fastened his cloak, settled the bow across his shoulder and took the leather case of arrows, he winked at Cavarinos.
‘Watch for the deployment and we will meet in the heart of the Roman line tomorrow. Time to unite the army.’
The king opened his mouth to forbid his cousin’s chosen course of action, but closed it again. The man was right, and they all knew it. And with his acute instincts and wit, Vergasillaunus stood as much chance of making it through the Roman lines as anyone.
As the army’s second in command turned and staggered down the hillside, the other rebel leaders watched him tensely. They would have to keep a close eye on that mass upon the hill opposite. The moment they moved, the trapped army would have to be ready.
* * * * *
Lucterius sat at the periphery of the circle while the commanders of the various contingents argued over the minutiae of inactivity. Various important matters under discussion included foraging for extra supplies over the ten miles or so south, east and north, the location of forward positions on the lower slopes to watch for potential Roman raids, the hierarchy of the gathered chieftains, and the closeness of their varied tribes to the central command area. Nothing that Lucterius considered worth opening his mouth for, even if he thought they might listen to him, which he knew they would not. It had become clear that his reputation had been thoroughly destroyed by Commius and the Aeduan magistrate. These gullible fools were bogging themselves down with idiocy in blind devotion to a former ally of Caesar, so newly come to the cause that some should still be doubting his motives, especially given his reluctance to commit any of the forces.
He shivered in a sudden breeze, despite the general warmth of the night and the blazing fire close by, and pulled his cloak about him.
‘The Romans send their scouts and foragers to the lower slopes of these very hills,’ announced the chieftain of the far northern Lexovii contingent, a man with as much wit as hair - and little of either. His men were camped closest to the Roman lines, and he appeared appropriately nervous.
‘Perhaps we should give them cause to stop sending their scouts?’ proposed the Leuci chief, earning him a nod of approval from Lucterius. At last someone had actually suggested action of some kind.
‘It would be better not to provoke the Romans.’ Commius countered, and Lucterius turned a disbelieving stare on him. Not provoke them?
‘If you are close to a sleeping bear and its paw twitches, you don’t poke the paw, do you?’ the army’s commander elucidated, miming the action to underline his meaning.
‘No,’ replied a hoarse voice from the darkness. ‘You take your sword and close on the creature, driving your blade through its brain before it has the chance to wake.’
The heads of several dozen chieftains turned in surprise at the voice as a figure emerged from the darkness into the light of the communal fire - no stranger should have been able to pass the guards encircling them at a respectable distance. Lucterius frowned into the gloom, and almost leapt as he recognised the figures of some of his own men following close on the speaker’s heels, all wearing the silver serpent arm ring of the Arverni, including the man who now cast aside a bow, let a quiver fall to the ground and discarded the dark, wool cloak he wore.
‘How dare you?’ snapped Commius, rising and quivering with rage. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘That,’ replied Lucterius, also rising to his feet, ‘is Vergasillaunus of the Arverni, Vercingetorix’s cousin, chosen second, victor of Gergovia and commander of the army of free tribes.’
The effect on the assembled nobles was impressive. Perhaps half of them bowed sharply, or even sank to their knees in deference to this notable leader who had helped the Arverni king engineer a war against Rome. The rest dithered, but the look of awe on most of their faces confirmed the immediate shift of power. Lucterius smiled as Commius spluttered in anger.
‘You have no authority here!’ the man snarled at the new arrival.
‘I beg to differ,’ Lucterius grinned. ‘I suspect you will find that it’s you who lacks authority.’ He turned to Vergasillaunus. ‘Your arrival is timely.’
The king’s cousin nodded his head respectfully at Lucterius and looked around the gathering. ‘Each man here has the count of twenty to decide whether he follows me against Rome or takes his forces and goes home. Make your choice, but bear in mind that those who are not with us might well be regarded as our enemy.’
The gathered chieftains gazed in awe at the commanding Arvernian and Commius heaved in angry breath after angry breath. ‘This is my army.’
‘No it isn’t,’ Vergasillaunus replied, calmly and evenly. ‘Your inclusion in this war is greatly encouraging, Commius of the Atrebates, and your strength at arms and noble lineage does not escape my cousin and I. But I command this army; do not be mistaken about that.’
The Arvernian’s hard features softened slightly, a calculating look in his eyes.
‘However, there are forces here of such vast numbers that they must by necessity be split among leaders. Lucterius is more than capable of commanding a sizeable force, as are several others. I would hope, Commius, that you would join them in leading such a host under my command?’
Without waiting for a reply to his acutely political offer, he turned back to the gathering. ’We must hit the Roman forces hard. If we deploy below the slope in the morning, and my king in Alesia forms a second force simultaneously, the Romans will do all they can to prevent the two attacks coinciding. They will be forced to send out their cavalry to deal with us first. And once they commit outside their defences, we will crush their horse.’
The chieftain of the Bituriges, his face painted with unease, cleared his throat. ‘I think you underestimate their cavalry. They break us time and again. We lost Novioduno because of them, and they annihilated our horse at Borvo. We all know that our tribes provide the best horsemen, but don’t forget that the Romans use our tribes, and their strange tactics are unstoppable.’
Vergasillaunus smiled coldly. ‘Far from it, my friend. Learn from your enemies. The Romans are disciplined, but they are also unpredictable, because they always have a trick up their sleeve. Well so do I. Fear not, for Caesar’s cavalry will rue the decision to deploy tomorrow, mark my words.’
Leaving the Biturige chief slightly less perturbed, Vergasillaunus stepped back and addressed the entire gathering.
‘No one appears to have left the fire, and so I will assume you are all content to serve under me. Very well. I will come among you in the next hour and tell each of you what is required. We move with the rising sun, so see to your forces. It is time to make Caesar bleed.’