“Madron! Madron!”
Victor Iorus peered around him a couple of times almost as though wanting to take in the entire perimeter of the camp, then crouched down to catch his breath.
“Jupiter Optimus Maximus,” he sighed, shaking his head, “tell me honestly if it’s right that a primipilus centurion should spend his morning looking for a young lad who can’t sit still for a moment. And all this,” he continued, looking up the fortress that loomed over the camp from nearby, “while Vercingetorix awaits the right moment to piss upon our heads.”
The legionaries who were playing dice outside a nearby tent had stopped and, foolish grins on their faces, were silently enjoying the show.
“Laugh, you mangy goat turds,” the centurion admonished them, “but I’ll be the one laughing when you find yourself at my side on the front line in the next battle.”
One of the soldiers received the threat with a frown while the others looked down and rolled their dice again.
Iorus bit his lip. For five days the army of Gaius Julius Caesar had pursued Vercingetorix along the course of the Elaver river, but the leader of all the Gallic tribes in revolt had arrived at Gergovia before his adversary and had taken up position with his militias on the tops of the mountains around the capital of the Arverni. Having arrived at the foot of the oppidum after a gruelling forced march, the Roman consul had decided to quarter his six legions within view of the city walls in anticipation of a possible siege. The thirty thousand men had gone without sleeping and eating for days on end simply to follow their commander into the very bowels of the earth, and they deserved the respect that is owed to the legionaries of the race. But the little boy he had found in the ruins of a Gallic village just two years before seemed to have the fury of Mars in his body.
Iorus resumed his search and found himself at the carpenter’s tent. In the semi-darkness inside, an incandescent iron bar resting on a large anvil was being hammered into a very sharp dagger with expert blows.
“Smith,” said the centurion, raising his voice so it might be heard over the sound of the hammer beating the iron, “have you seen Madron?”
The hand that held the smith’s tool halted in mid-air while the other dipped the glowing metal bar into a barrel full of water.
“Who, the little boy?” the man asked absently as a cloud of steam emerged, accompanied by a loud sizzle. “I really don’t know what to tell you, Centurion.” The carpenter seemed amused. “That little Gaul is unpredictable. He’s as fast as a bolt of lightning and he gets in everywhere. This morning he was at the stables, then they saw him at the auxiliary training camp. So I wouldn’t know where he is now… “
A prolonged hiss preceded the arrival of a stone as round and small as a cherry as it cut through the air, passing a thumb’s distance from the blacksmith’s nose and striking a shield hanging from the far wall of the shop with a metallic crash. The impact caused the shield to come loose from its hook, and the huge mass of wood and leather fell onto the shelf below, sending two daggers and the remains of a helmet flying into the air like feathers. The noise reached its climax when the shield, falling backwards, knocked over a rack of spears.
The carpenter looked at the centurion and chuckled. “…but something tells me you’ll find him at the slingsmen’s tents.”
Passing the quarters of the equestrian auxiliaries, Victor Iorus took long strides in the direction of the camp’s decuman gate until he found himself in the middle of a group of brightly coloured tents surrounded by torches upon which placid blue flames burned. It was a sight which was in stark contrast to the rest of the camp and especially to the general sobriety of the legionary’s tents, but a certain extravagance had to be granted to men willing to face a battlefield equipped only with stones and slings.
The primipilus centurion barely managed to dodge another large projectile that knocked over one of the torches, and a tongue of fire licked at one of the pegs holding the tent’s guy ropes. It gave way to the flames with a snap and the tent slumped over to one side, uprooting the other pegs that, one by one, flew out of the ground like corks out of jugs. From the muffled curses in broken Latin that came from within it was clear that someone was not best pleased.
“No, no, no. You must be calmer, you must concentrate. Now either listen to me or we’ll end up having to rebuild the entire camp.”
Speaking with a Suebian accent, the voice came from an embankment that began just beyond the last damasked tent. Victor Iorus walked towards it and saw a group of slingers with their backs to him arrayed in a semicircle .
“Left foot forward, right foot backward,” continued the voice from the other side of that human barrier, “right hand over the head and, please, only let go of the grip when your arm is extended completely forward. Do you understand me, Madron? “
“Yes, Lucretius,” answered a child’s excited voice.
Iorus pushed his way through, sending a couple of men sprawling into the dust while the others stepped back when they recognised the centurion. He saw a little boy who barely came up to the withers of a horse and who, in an almost mystical total silence, was whirling a sling above his head. The stone ready to detach itself from the sheath gleamed ominously in the light of the sun as it made wider and faster turns. The instructor had stopped talking and was watching the movement of the boy’s arm as he prepared to throw. Finally, the moment arrived. The boy stretched out his arm and opened part of his hand so as to free the projectile, but the gesture was once again mistimed and the stone shot upwards, flying at full speed towards one of the nearby watchtowers. There was a dull thud and then all present were treated to a detailed account of Juno’s amatory habits from the voice of one of the sentries.
“The sling must make three revolutions above your head,” said the centurion even before the boy and his impromptu master realised his presence. “Not one more and not one less – it’s a question of the balance between weight and eye.”
The child turned slowly and a broad smile appeared on his face. “Victor.” He showed the soldier the empty slingshot. “I’m learning to throw stones! Marcus Lucretius is teaching me!”
“So I see Madron, so I see,” the centurion said reluctantly. He glanced accusingly at Lucretius who pretended to be looking for something. “Let’s get back to the tent, though. It’s mealtime and by the tenth hour I have to be out with my men for the training. And I would like my beneficiarius to be there as well,” he added, turning to Lucretius,” as long as he doesn’t have other important tasks to carry out for the sake of the Roman army.”
“All right, Victor. But first, teach me to use this. “ Madron showed the sling to the centurion.
“It’s not the kind of thing you can learn in a day, lad. These men,” he said, pointing to the slingsmen gathered on the embankment,” had to practice for months, for years, to be able to control the speed and distance of their throws. And you want to do it in a day?”
“Please, Victor…”
The centurion looked at the reflection of himself in the boy’s green eyes and for a long moment saw images of burning huts, bodies immersed in pools of blood and severed heads lying in the mud. And then he seemed to hear that lament that had soon turned into a long sob and that look, broken but proud, that prayed without ever begging.
“Please, Victor. Please.”
The centurion took a step backwards. “Very well,” he said resignedly. “Give me a slingshot.”
He tested the resistance of the habena and stood next to the boy. “Look at me, Madron. And remember. The slingshot has to make no more than three revolutions above your head, after which the stone must be released. In battle there is no time for hesitation, and two revolutions can mean throwing too close while four can mean throwing too far.”
The boy nodded and tried to imitate the officer’s gestures. Victor Iorus picked up a stone from the ground and placed it into the sling’s pocket, then brought his hand to his side, letting the leather weapon dangle almost indolently. Fifty paces away a slave was sitting on a wooden board polishing a helmet. Beside him there was a rag and a terracotta carafe.
The centurion squinted, raised his arm, spun his slingshot and threw. The instant Madron realised that the stone had been thrown, the noise of the jug shattering came from a short distance away. The slave turned angrily, but when he noticed the centurion he made a resigned face and stood up to go and look for another vessel.
Victor Iorus dropped the slingshot to the ground.
“Right, now that you’ve finally seen how it’s done, let’s go and eat.”
“But I want to try too,” the boy protested.
“Madron is right,” Lucretius said, “he must try too.”
“You never remain silent when the opportunity to say something that will complicate my life arises, do you?” The centurion’s arms fell to his side. “The more time passes, the more I am convinced that I should never have put you up for that promotion.”
In response, Marcus Lucretius hugged the boy and they both smiled at him.
“When I see you two like this it fairly makes my hands itch.” Iorus started to walk away but then thought better of it. He stopped and shook his head. There was complete silence. All eyes were on him and he could feel the pressure almost physically. “Very well, you can try it for yourself – but in the way I tell you to,” he said finally. He motioned for everyone to wait and disappeared, soon returning with a bulging leather bag in his hand. He opened it before the boy’s eyes to show its contents.
“Today’s ration,” he commented. “Don’t you already feel your mouth watering?” The aroma of seasoned cheese and dried meat immediately filled the warm midday air. Madron tried to stick his hand inside but the officer quickly withdrew the bag and closed it again. “Stop: a soldier must have patience.” He found a stool and then walked thirty steps, coming almost to the end of the training camp. He placed it on the ground and set the tightly closed leather bag upon it.
“These soldiers all come from an archipelago of Hispanic islands called Balearics,” he said, pointing to the men gathered around the embankment, “and they are the most skilled in the world with the use of the sling.” He took a few steps to reach the crowd that had again gathered in the meantime behind the boy. “One of their legends tells us that they are able to practice this art with such skill because mothers there do not allow their young children to touch food if they cannot first hit it with a mattiobarbulus. And if the offspring of those mad peasants can do it,” he added, raising a hand to the child’s shoulders in a benevolent manner, “then so can a boy who aspires to becoming a legionary.” He nodded to them all and then turned his back on the training camp. A few moments later he heard a hiss and then a dull thump which was followed by a chorus of disapproval. He smiled. “Wonderful,” he said, walking on, “today I’m paying for the aspiring slingsman’s lunch.”
There was a long silence and then the boy’s raced to catch up with him and the centurion soon found Madron at his side as he walked back towards the officers’ quarters .
A little further behind he could hear the panting of his beneficiarius. “Of course, you can come too, Lucretius,” he said, gesturing to him to catch up, “but I allow it only so that I can keep an eye on you both.”
“I’ll manage to do it tomorrow, Victor, you’ll see,” the boy promised, looking at the centurion with rapt eyes.
“Yes, tomorrow you will manage it. But will you also manage to remember that when we are with other soldiers you must call me ‘sir’ and not Victor?”
Madron looked contrite. “Sorry Vic… I mean sorry, sir,” he said, shooting Lucretius an embarrassed glance. “But one day I will become a great legionary, and I will have a heroic name like yours.” He stopped and stood to attention, attracting the attention of a few passing slaves. “And when, at the end of some memorable battle, Cesare reviews the bravest legionaries and asks me ‘What is your name, soldier?’, I will answer…”
“There will be plenty of time for you to decide what you will answer,” cut in the centurion, dragging him along by the arm. “In the meantime, your treatment will be no different from that reserved for the other slaves.”
“But Victor… I mean, but sir,” said Madron, staring at him, “you saved my life.”
Iorus put a protective hand on his head. “And I promise you that I will help you to become a real soldier and I will choose a name for you to be proud of. But every name has a meaning, a power. It floats around like a spirit until it has found the most worthy owner to welcome it. Yours is waiting somewhere to find you. You must simply be patient.”
A prolonged sound of trumpets echoed powerfully through the air. Victor Iorus froze.
“Caesar?”
The sound of trumpets followed the horns and he saw that the standards were moving too.
“To the tent, quickly,” said the centurion, starting to run. “Let’s try to find out what’s going on. This call to arms was not scheduled.”
The child preceded him and when the officer arrived at his quarters his armour, helmet and dagger were ready to be worn. Madron smiled happily as he watched the centurion dress.
“Wait for me here,” the soldier finally said to him, “and don’t move until I get back, understand?”
Without waiting for an answer he rushed out of the tent and began to run towards the principia. In the distance he could see the banners of some of the cohorts already in movement and a white shape champing at the bit: Gaius Julius Caesar’s horse, which had been led out of the stables and prepared for its master by the two slaves who were now saddling it.
Marcus Lucretius made his way along the Via Praetoria as though between the swinging sacks they dodged between in the training ground. The main road of the camp was full of soldiers entering and leaving their quarters and intent on putting on their uniforms. When the centurion passed in front of the tent where the flags of the departments were kept, the slaves gave him the staff surmounted by the golden eagle with spread wings with obvious deference. The young beneficiarius checked its solidity and brightness and then looked around for the aquilifer he was to deliver it to. In an instant the standard-bearers of the cohorts and the signifer of the maniples were beside him. When he arrived at the large field in front of the general command he noticed that the officers, with the vexilla and signa of all the other legions stationed in the castrum, had come to listen to their commander.
Many of the centurions were crowded in front of the praetorian gate. It had not escaped the beneficiarius’s notice that the auxiliary cavalry was already completely deployed outside the walls of the fortress awaiting orders.
The legates were confabulating, and one of them broke away from the group. Over his tunic he wore a bronze anatomical cuirass covered of embossed figures and on his head was a gleaming helmet from which a crest of the same colour as his tunic rose up vertically. When he raised an arm to attract attention, silence fell immediately.
“There is no time to waste,” he thundered in a voice so loud that his words were audible to all present, “so listen to me all carefully. Convictolitavis, leader of the tribe of the Aedui, is about thirty miles from our camp at the head of ten thousand armed men.” A buzz spread among the soldiers. The legate requested silence with a wave of his hand. “His intentions appear clear. Urged on by the Arverni, he intends to break the alliance with Rome, join Vercingetorix,” he said, turning his gaze to the nearby fortress of Gergovia, “and give us battle.” The buzz resumed but this time instead of placating it, the Legatus raised his voice.
“But we do not bear a grudge against an old friend,” he said as a gust of wind ruffled the crest of his helmet, “and for this reason, we will go to welcome him!”
The tribunes exchanged sarcastic smiles, while a liberating roar exploded from the crowd. “Caesar will lead the operation personally. Gaius Fabius will have the task of guarding the castrum while he awaits our return.” The legate unrolled a papyrus. “Upon the orders of the commander, the sixth, eighth, tenth and thirteenth legions are to be ready in armour and equipped with light equipment within an hour. The ninth and fourteenth legions,” he added, looking towards the tribunes, “will guard the camp under the command of Gaius Fabius.” The legate rolled up the papyrus again. “That is all.”
At that moment Caesar’s white horse burst into the parade ground, kicking its front legs up proudly. On its back it sported a saddle of red leather. The splendid beast shook its mane and whinnied, flexing its powerful neck muscles as half a dozen slaves chased after it in an attempt to get it under control. With a leap it evaded two of them, while a third, who was trying to block its way, received a blow from its muzzle that sent him sprawling to the ground.
The legate watched the scene with some satisfaction. “Even our commander’s horse is eager to leave. We’d better not make him wait too long or he’ll reduce the whole camp to rubble.”
The joke drew laughter from all present, and sanctioned their breaking formation to go and prepare.
The officers and the standard-bearers of the legions who would be fighting hastily left the gathering, while on the faces of the representatives of those legions forced to remain within the walls of the camp there were expressions of despair and annoyance.
*
On his way back to their tents, Victor Iorus took a passing kick at a bucket, and at the slave who was carrying it.
“Don’t take on,” said Lucretius in an attempt to cheer him up, “after all it’s a deterrent manoeuvre.”
“Do you really think that the proconsul would leave the castrum with two generals, four legions and all the auxiliary cavalry available just to carry out a deterrent manoeuvre?” he asked angrily.
The beneficiarius took off his helmet and held it at his side. The sun was beating down on the field and scorching the earth.
“No but…”
“Then be quiet,” said Iorus.
Madron followed the two soldiers at a safe distance. He wanted to say something but every time he was about to open his mouth, he held himself back. And just when he had finally summoned up enough courage, a messenger ran up behind them.
“What is all this hurry?” snapped the centurion. “Has Caesar changed his mind?”
“From General Fabius,” the messenger explained, handing him a dispatch, “to replace the one distributed this morning.”
“What is it?” said Lucretius, trying to see as Victor Iorus unrolled the parchment.
“It is the updated guard shifts for after the operation leaves. There is an order to strengthen the garrison on the second castrum with the advancement of another cohort. The first of our legion.”
“When?”
“Before the start of the first vigil.”
“Well if nothing else at least we’ll enjoy the sunset from up there.”
“Afternoon training is postponed, then,” said Iorus, turning to the beneficiarius. His tents were now in sight. “But right now, I’d like to get something in my stomach.”
“Yes!” cried Madron enthusiastically. “That way we’ll have plenty of time to prepare ourselves!”
The centurion and beneficiarius turned simultaneously.
“Madron,” Iorus said firmly, “don’t even think about it.”
“I swear that I’ll keep quiet,” the boy stammered, running two fingers along his lips, “and I will only speak when you order me. And… and I’ll polish your helmets and…” He groped through his imagination for more ideas. “…and I’ll fill your water bottle when it’s empty. Come on, how will I ever become a real soldier if I don’t start learning? If I had a soldier name, would you take me? So what are you waiting for to give me one?”
For a few moments, Victor Iorus was dumbfounded, then he raised both hands to his helmet and slowly pulled it off.
“By Jupiter Optimus Maximus.”
*
“Yours isn’t a child’s name, Madron,” Iorus repeated for the umpteenth time. The discussion had started from the moment the cohort commanded by the primipilus had gone through the praetorian gate. Now, near the final stretch, the road excavated in the ground was beginning to rise. Along the sides of the road, a skilful bit of engineering constructed out of earth and stones in only a few hours allowed the Roman soldiers to proceed undisturbed, sheltered from possible attacks from above.
In the first days of siege of the city of Gergovia, the Gauls had carried out numerous annoying attacks with archers and small cavalry, and for this reason Caesar had organised a sortie to occupy the hill at the foot of the rock where the Gauls had stationed their garrison. Later he’d had a double ditch dug, twelve feet wide, which connected the larger camp with the smaller one which was in the front line and represented the outpost from which the movements of the enemy could be observed well in advance. The protected walkway was traversed several times a day by small units which took turns at guard duty.
“It is a name from your lands,” added the centurion. “It’s what you said you were called when I found you.”
Iorus led the double row of legionaries that, with the exception of convalescents and those who were sick, complied to the letter with the orders he had received from the legatus. With one exception: a pot-bellied mule upon whose back sat two sacks of salt, a dolabra and a young boy. The centurion had not yet ordered the lighting of the torches because the light of day still allowed him to advance without difficulty and because he counted on being at the camp before sunset.
“In any case,” he said, keeping his pace, “it was a bad idea.”
“What was a bad idea?” asked the boy as he jolted along on the mule’s back.
“Taking that sling without the permission of its owner.”
Madron looked down at the strip of leather that hung from his belt.
“And insisting on coming with us, of course.” The centurion smiled a little. “But you are my slave and therefore it is my right to take you wherever I go.”
“What about Maximus?” said Madron, trying to change the subject.
“What about it?”
“As a name. My Roman name. Or…” he put his hand to his chin and raised an eyebrow,” Claudius. Or even Octavius.”
“I doubt that you had enough brothers to justify such a… such a numerous name. And anyway,” said Iorus, “I don’t think this is the ideal time for making that kind of decision.”
Marcus Lucretius strode to the front of the line. He was wearing armour, breeches and walking boots and thanks to the special privileges he enjoyed as an officer’s attendant, he was permitted a shield that was lighter and more manageable than those of the other legionaries, as well as his faithful Hispanic sword. “Do you think Vercingetorix will decide to attack tonight?”
“There have only been two legions guarding the fortress since this morning, and unless they’re total idiots, someone will surely have told him. I see no reason to treat this march as a berry-picking trip.”
The beneficiarius did not answer because he knew that this observation might contain at least a foundation of truth.
“So?” continued the child. “What do you think of Octavius? Or Claudius?”
Lucretius thought about it for a few moments. “I think,” he said after a moment, “that you should have a name that means something. That represents your personality. I mean,” he continued, stroking the bear’s fur on his helmet, “a name that immediately tells people what you are.”
“I can’t think of anything. But one thing is certain, I was truly lucky to meet two fellows like you.”
“Landslide!”
The legionaries in the vanguard stopped and signalled for the rest of the men to slow down.
“What’s going on?” Iorus asked, hurrying over to them.
One of the speculatores pointed to the left of the walkway. The embankment wall had given way and much of the route was covered with dirt and stones. The centurion ordered them to help him up so he could take a look. The lights of the small camp were clearly visible in the distance. “Come on,” he said, “one last push, we’re almost there.” The scouts moved aside to let Lucretius pass, accompanied by half a dozen muscular legionaries. “Come on, let’s hurry up and remove this mess,” the beneficiarius commanded.
*
Victor Iorus took a deep breath to savour the crisp evening air. The sun on the horizon was a yellowish sphere enveloped in an indistinct circle of violet shades. It seemed to be resting upon the ground as though wanting to rest before disappearing to make room for the night. The centurion scanned the vault of the heavens and saw the gleam of the first stars, then he looked around for the moon and caught a glimpse of its outline between the trees of a thick forest that rose a little to the south of the smaller camp. He observed the light curiously: although his eyesight was not exceptional, he struggled to believe that the moon was able to move so quickly.
“I think we might have visitors,” he said, calling Lucretius’s attention to the light.
The beneficiarius left the soldiers who were moving the stones and climbed up the embankment next to the centurion. “Those aren’t torches,” he said, straining his eyes, “the flame is too light. And they’re not wood fires either.”
“So what are they, then?”
The beneficiary toyed with the hilt of his sword while he peered at the glimmer of light that was visible through the trees.
“Braziers. I’m almost sure of it.”
“Braziers? What would braziers be doing in a forest that’s a javelin’s throw from away from the camp?”
Lucretius shrugged. “Maybe they are our haruspexes.”
“I doubt that. I think we should go and see for ourselves.”
Lucretius turned to the soldiers who stood waiting for orders. “Twenty legionaries with me. The first ten odd numbers from each column.” But at that moment he felt the centurion’s hand on his shoulder.
“No,” said Iorus. “You must stay with them.” He looked first at the child on the mule and then at the beneficiarius. “Make sure everyone gets to the camp by sunset.” Without waiting for a reply he jumped from the embankment followed by the soldiers who had left the formation, and their shadowy forms walked along the slope of the land until they were no longer visible.
Lucretius stood at the head of the men, and when all the stones had been removed from the walkway, the cohort was able to continue. The march continued smoothly until a squad of auxiliary cavalry came to meet the legionaries on foot, announcing that the camp was nearby. Lucretius greeted them with a wave of his hand.
“Finally. Nearly time to eat. Are you hungry, Madron?” he asked, continuing to look ahead. The child didn’t answer him, so he turned to repeat the question.
On the mule there were only the two bags of salt.
*
Iorus drew his sword and with the tip of its blade indicated to his men to arrange themselves in a semicircle so as to cover the visible perimeter of the wood. Hundreds of oaks with robust knotty trunks rose majestically until they almost touched the sky. Here and there in the little space left between the trunks of the centuries-old trees grew filiform birches surrounded by bushes of indistinguishable weeds. There was still movement in the trees. The lights appeared and disappeared between the lower branches like a swarm of fireflies.
The legionaries advanced in silence, helped also by the wind that rattled the branches and fronds, drowning out their movements. From the heart of the woods came the sound of singing voices.
Iorus motioned for the others to crouch down, and when he reached the first trees he was assailed by a powerful aroma of burned herbs and noticed that the chorus of voices, which he now heard more clearly, was accompanied by rudimentary percussion instruments. The legionaries tightened their formation more and more until they stopped a few steps away from what appeared to be a religious ceremony. There were copper braziers placed upon engraved stones a little less than a foot high. Iorus counted a dozen of them, arranged in a circle at regular intervals from one another, emitting sparse swirls of white smoke from the burning of broken leaves and small branches. The scent in the air was reminiscent of incense but more acrid, more intense. From time to time the wind managed to dispel the miasma and thin tongues of blue fire made their way through the ash, nourishing the small fires.
The centurion signalled to his companions to stop and lay down their shields. Thanks to the natural cover provided by the bushes, they still remained invisible despite being almost able to touch the braziers.
Iorus observed the movement of the priests. He counted six of them, about one for every two braziers. They could not be Romans because they did not dress like haruspexes. They wore long white sleeveless tunics open at the neck. The fabric appeared to be cotton or linen and was the same colour as the stoles, just over two palms wide, which they wore on their heads and whose purpose appeared to be of an exclusively ritual nature. On the napes of their necks and on their foreheads were strange tattoos depicting complicated geometric designs.
At the centre of the sacred circle there was an improvised altar where there was an oblong menhir, almost as tall as a person. The large, smooth stone rested on the ground balanced inside an enclosure. On top of it a composition of garlands and mistletoe dotted with dried berries could be seen, upon which lay a glowing, smouldering ember that gave off fragrant smoke.
The priests had their hands raised towards the sky and were chanting words whose meaning Iorus could not understand but which he sensed must be part of a prayer or an invocation.
The centurion scratched the bristly hair on his chin. What were local priests doing in a wood not far from the Roman camp and without an escort? Vercingetorix had arranged the presidia of his troops around the fortress of Gergovia, but to get to the woodland those priests must have been forced to make a very long and complicated journey to elude the Roman lookouts. That was far too many risks for a religious ritual which could easily have taken place within the secure walls of the Arverni’s oppidum.
The stars in the sky now shone with greater intensity, announcing that the sun had already set and that, if everything was going as planned, Lucretius and the first cohort should already have reached the camp.
Iorus continued to look around him for enemy soldiers but his initial hypothesis seemed confirmed. As absurd as it might appear, the priests were completely defenceless.
“There are only two children the same age as me who are playing the tambourines. But they are on the other side of the trees.”
Sword at the ready and an expression of disbelief on his face, Iorus whirled around.
“Madron …” he hissed in a low voice. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the camp with Lucretius and the others. “ He glanced over at the priests who were continuing with their litanies. “It’s very dangerous here. And in any case, how in the name of the gods did you get so close without me hearing you?”
“I’m good, aren’t I?” said the boy, a pleased grin on his face.
The centurion sighed. He knew Madron was clever as well as particularly agile, and would one day become an excellent scout. But as talented he was, the last thing Iorus needed in that moment was to have the lad getting in the way.
“Now I’ll have to get you back.”
“Forget it. I want to stay with you,”
“Then I’ll have you tied to a tree.”
“Look, if you think I’m going to give you away, you’re wrong.”
He held out his hand, closed into a fist, to the centurion, and when he opened it, Iorus saw a small black gem sparkling on his palm.
“I found it under that tall stone,” he said, pointing to the menhir at the centre of the ritual, “and there are loads of others, all small and all the same colour. Only from here you can’t see them.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you went over to their altar without anybody seeing you?”
“Of course. I’m very good at sneaking around.” He lay down in the bushes, continuing to grip the small stone as if it were a weapon. “So now what? Are we going to attack them?”
The centurion put his hand over the boy’s mouth tightly.
“Shut up.”
The priests had begun to move slowly, like rushes waving in the wind. They held the palms of their hands up towards the dark vault of the night sky and their voices grew louder and deeper. The smoke from the braziers increased in intensity and a small flame appeared on the top of the largest stone. The scent of roasted berries filled the air. It was like being in the spice market in Carthage.
“Ow!” exclaimed Madron.
Iorus turned abruptly. “Shut up, I said.”
“It burns,” murmured the boy apologetically. He held up the hand that had had been holding the black stone and showed Iorus the reddish lesion. “It suddenly got hot.”
Iorus bent to pick up the stone but a sudden tremor made him lose his balance. He looked around for his men, and saw that one was standing with his hands against the trunk of a tree and another was sitting on the ground. So it was true, then – the earth beneath his feet had moved.
The braziers clinked on their supports and a tall silver flame rose from the top of the menhir. The priests broke off their chanting and fell to their knees. The silence that descended upon the woods felt almost suffocating. Even the tambourines had stopped beating.
“It’s cold,” said Madron. He had picked up his stone again, which seemed to have stopped burning.
In fact, the temperature of the air itself had suddenly dropped, and Iorus could see his breath condensing in front of his nose. He fumbled with the fibula of his cloak then took it off and put it over the child’s shoulders. “I don’t need it,” he lied. “Put that on.”
The boy got on his knees, wrapped the centurion’s cloak around his neck and attached it with the fibula. The grey cloak of the Roman officer hung off him, making him look like a scarecrow. “It’s like it was made for me,” he whispered, beaming with pleasure.
“It is,” lied Iorus again. He reached out a hand to try and straighten the cloak up it, but at that moment another tremor knocked him off his feet. It was as though someone had suddenly pulled a rug out from under him.
The earth had moved again, and this time the tremor had been much more powerful than the one he had felt earlier.
He looked around him for the other legionaries but his attention was captured to what was happening inside the perimeter delimited by the braziers. The oblong stone that dominated the ritual had changed colour and had turned the same translucent black hue of the little pearl Madron had shown him. It was slowly rising from the ground.
“Madron,” the officer called, but the boy was no longer at his side. Hidden in the grass where he had been shone the small black stone. Iorus carefully picked it up: it was no longer hot.
It was then that he saw the shapes which were emerging from the ground. They had ill-defined anthropomorphic features and seemed to have been vomited up from the roots of the menhir.
“By Mithras,” he stammered in disbelief, “what sorcery is this?”
Hovering over the heads of the priests, who waved their arms like puppeteers, he saw they were the phantoms of men in battle dress, who moved without regard to the laws of nature. Their weapons, helmets, shields and even their breeches could be seen clearly but their bodies were faded, devoid of colour, and almost transparent.
Then, suddenly, surprising even their summoners, they descended. One of the ghosts brought down the axe he carried, literally splitting the body of one of the priests in two.
As the centurion grabbed his sword and backed away in terror, he bumped into a log and dropped the stone. The moment the stone left his hand, the ghosts disappeared from his sight, but the priests continued to panic and flee in all directions. Iorus could hear them screaming and saw them flying through the air like leaves blown by the wind. He was struck by a thought, and began searching the ground around his feet for the black stone, but when he had recovered up and stood back up, he instantly started with shock and then leapt aside, narrowly avoiding the blade that was about to run him through. The ghost had appeared right in front of him when he had taken possession of the stone again. He looked around him and saw that after having attacked the priests who had summoned them, the ghosts of the dead soldiers were now heading towards his men.
He jumped out of the way of another swing of the sword.
“Out! Everyone out of the woods!” he shouted to the legionaries, who, incredulous and terrified, were peering about themselves in bewilderment and swinging their swords blindly. “This way!”
Some cried out, wounded by the invisible weapons of their attackers, while others dropped their shields and fled in panic. Iorus wanted to help them escape that inferno, but his opponent was still harrying him, so he backed away again but tripped over a bush and fell, losing his shield when he hit the ground. The phantom took advantage of that moment of weakness and raised its two-handed sword over its head.
The centurion instinctively covered his face but the sword did not descend.
When he opened his eyes he saw that the ghost had disappeared and that Madron was standing next to one of the braziers.
“We have to throw these stones into the fire,” he shouted, throwing another. “That makes them go away.” He turned to the menhir. “There are lots of them over there.”
Iorus did not believe in the supernatural, and his amazement was even more powerful than his fear.
“I don’t care. Come with me.”
“I’m not in any danger,” the child said calmly, “they can’t see me.” He spread his arms, and two of the phantom warriors passed right by him, completely ignoring him. “I don’t know why but it is so.”
The boy was right: the enraged demons seemed not to notice his existence. There was no logical explanation for the phenomenon unless it was all somehow connected to those black pebbles that allowed things hidden from the human eye to be seen. Iorus felt a shiver run down his spine. He was reluctant to leave the child at the mercy of magic, but he had no choice but to trust the boy’s inexplicable invisible shield.
“All right then. Throw all the stones you find in the fire and I’ll try to help my men escape from the woods. But I must take one of these stones with me,” he added, holding out his fist,” I can’t defend myself if I can’t see them.”
Madron threw the centurion’s cloak over his shoulders, then turned around and went back to collecting the scattered stones from the ground.
Iorus started to run. He cast glances around him as he went, but it seemed that the ghosts had forgotten his existence. Either that or Madron was doing a good job. He gathered the few surviving legionaries together and led them towards the light. It seemed to take an eternity but in the end, to his immense relief, he saw the last oaks and birch branches that grew on the edge of the woodland.
*
Lucretius was certain that Madron had followed his centurion, and what irritated him the most was that the lad had sneaked out from under his nose without his so much as noticing. He had been trained to hear the snap of a bow string fifty paces away but hadn’t heard a little boy jump off a mule’s back right behind him.
It was already evening when Victor Iorus’s cohort, having arrived without problems at the smaller fort where the second cohort of the ninth legion was awaiting them, had settled into the lodgings left by the soldiers who had gone with Caesar. A thousand men would certainly not be enough to hold off a large-scale attack by Vercingetorix, but they represented a line of defence in the event that the Gauls decided to take advantage of the temporary weakening of their opponent’s defences to attempt one of their sorties. In the event, a system of fast relays was set up that ran along the entire walkway and which, in a very short time, would allow an entire legion to race over to the front line. At that moment, though, the situation seemed to be under control and the soldiers were preparing to spend a quiet night.
Marcus Lucretius was worried about the fate of his commander, though. Iorus had not yet returned, and enough time had passed to allow him to cover the distance between the woods and the second fort at least twice. For this reason, he had not hesitated to put his armour on again and go and look and for him. And something told him that he would find Madron in the woods too.
In order to avoid taking too many risks, Lucretius had dragged along with him two reluctant optiones and an almost complete centuria that had been expecting to sit around the fires and warm their muscles, which were tired after the long march.
The beneficiarius stopped at the edge of the bushes: the already lit torches marked the movements of the soldiers, who left luminous trails behind them. The Centuria was distributed into three lines of twenty-five men each. The lights that they had seen from the walkway were no longer visible.
Lucretius advanced cautiously as the two optiones kept order in the ranks of the legionaries.
“We have to search the whole area,” he ordered, “it was around here that we were separated. Let’s split into three groups. You keep an eye on the perimeter,” he added, looking at the optiones, “while I search the woods. “
When the ground began to tremble, he slowed his pace, and the second tremor convinced him to stop moving completely and listen. Then came the third. This time the earth seemed about to give way under his feet. Lucretius drew his sword, and the rattling sound he heard behind him made him realise that all the other legionaries had done the same. He didn’t know whether to advance or wait for the bowels of the earth to calm their fury, but his commander made the decision for him.
“Hurry! Get out of here!” shouted Victor Iorus as he hurried out of the woods. He held his helmet in one hand while the other was clenched in a fist that hung by his side.
Lucretius was so pleased to see him that he was about to go over and greet him, but the officer waved him back. “No, keep away,” he admonished, “all of you keep away.”
“By the gods, what happened?” shouted the beneficiarius.
The centurion reached his sergeant, who grabbed his shoulders. His face and arms were covered in numerous wounds, some of which were still bleeding. “Sorcery, my friend,” he said after catching his breath, “veritable sorcery. We interrupted a meeting of druids who were raising the dead.”
“The dead?” asked the beneficiarius incredulously. “What are you talking about?”
“Believe me, Lucretius, it’s the truth. And we have to get out of here. And fast, because we have no way of fighting them.”
“But… the dead?!”
The terrified look that Iorus gave him was more eloquent than any answer.
“I saw them,” the centurion said, “I saw them. I think they were planning on unleashing them against us, but they couldn’t control them, and…”
The silence of the night was broken by the unmistakable sound of galloping horses. A flash of torches appeared on the horizon behind the legionaries deployed at the edge of the woods.
“They’re from the camp,” said Iorus.
“And they look to be in a hurry, too,” answered Lucretius as he went over to them.
There were two messengers, and they stopped in front of the beneficiarius and looked around for the highest-ranking officer.
“The smaller fort is under attack,” said one of the soldiers on horseback when he identified the centurion. “Gaius Fabius asks you to return immediately.”
Iorus spat on the ground. “Damn it, it would be tonight when Caesar is away with most of the men.”
“The commander has already been reached on his way back by the scouts who left from the main camp,” said one of the messengers.
“Where are your men?” asked Lucretius. “And… where is Madron?”
Iorus turned to the woods. It was a black mass, too dense for the flames of the torches to penetrate, making it appear that the first rows of trees hid a bottomless pit.
“He’s still in there,” he said.
*
Madron had diligently done his job and the ghosts had allowed him to do it. He had found many of the black stones, each about as big as a bean, in the woods. He had searched in the grass next to the corpses, in the pools of water, next to the braziers and above all, near the main altar. It hadn’t been easy because of the darkness, but when his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, he had discovered that those small black stones gave off whitish reflections.
The child was sitting with his back against one of the smaller carved stones. He felt tired and very cold. Nothing was moving now. All the men had run out of the forest and Iorus, his hero, had managed to save more than one of them, partly with his help. The thought made him smile as he examined his hands, which were covered in burns. Every stone he had thrown into the fire had torn a small piece of flesh from him, but it was worth it because now there was no trace of the phantoms. He was convinced that there was no longer a single one of them left in the forest.
Madron breathed methodically, closing his eyes and stretching out his hands to let the damp softness of the moss refresh them when suddenly he felt something very like a spider’s web pass over his face. A strange but, above all, a warm feeling. He opened his eyes, and when he put his hands on the ground to raise himself, he felt a small, hard, rounded protuberance sticking out of the soil. He closed his fist on the little stone, which remained, docile, in his hand.
“That’s another one. There’s still another one,” he sighed before getting to his feet.
Not far away, the wind was blowing at the last of the sacred fires still burning. The boy quickly went over to it and threw the stone into it, then stood still listening to the beat of his heart. There was no other sound under the dark vault formed by the branches. Apart from that of an invisible veil that seemed to dance before his eyes.
“That wasn’t your stone, was it?”
Slowly, Madron turned around. And decided he had to run.
*
“There he is!” exclaimed Lucretius, pointing to something moving at the edge of the forest. It was the centurion’s cloak with wrapped inside it a little boy who was leaping like a madman so as not to stumble. He looked as though he was running a sack race.
“The stone! Give me the stone in your hand, Victor,” he shouted without stopping. “There’s only one left… sir! And I have to destroy that one too.” He pointed to the small black stone that sparkled in the palm of the soldier’s hand.
Iorus noticed the tear in his tunic and the red furrow on the boy’s face.
“What happened to you?”
Madron ran a hand over his sooty face.
“The one that’s left isn’t very fond of me,” said the boy, his eyes never leaving the centurion’s fist.
Iorus looked at him carefully. It seemed that the boy wasn’t at all shocked by what was happening around him – as if a cold cloak of indifference from that distant night two years before had enveloped him forever. “You’re… you’re just a child.” But perhaps it was simply the unthinkingness of youth that made Madron react in that cold, detached way. He hoped so. “I can’t let you go back in there by yourself.” He drew his sword again. “Give me a torch.”
And so saying, the centurion and the child advanced towards the woods and soon the darkness swallowed the faint flame that accompanied them.
*
“Give me the stone,” the child said when they were near the menhir. The scene that revealed itself to the eyes of the centurion was an incredible one. There were corpses everywhere and the fury of the fighting had made the Roman victims indistinguishable from the Celts. The ashes of the extinguished braziers were covered with shreds of fabric and spatters of blood. Bent, broken and abandoned weapons lay discarded among the leaves beside the mutilated bodies of those who had tried to use them against an unstoppable enemy.
“By Mitra,” the centurion whispered. “It was a massacre.”
“Come on, give me the stone,” the boy urged him. He stretched out his hand and shook it insistently.
“Where is it?” the soldier asked, scanning the shadows of the branches in the hope of seeing some movement that would reveal the position of the last of the ghosts.
“I can’t see it. Hurry up… sir.”
Iorus reached out to hand over the little black stone to the child, but at the moment he was about to drop it into the boy’s palm he heard a rustling behind the menhir and turned around, the sudden movement sending the stone flying off into the scrub. The black stone disappeared into the blackness of the night.
“Gods!” the soldier swore.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find it, “the boy reassured him, immediately getting down on all fours. “I’ve found many others.”
“That was my fault. I got distracted. But I thought I heard something. “ He held the torch close to the ground.
“I’ll find it,” the child repeated. “I’ll find it.”
There was another rustle, this time closer, and then the torch went out.
The centurion threw the smouldering cinder away.
“I’ll find it. I swear I find it. “ Madron’s hands swept the ground with rapid movements.
A more distinct rustling. And then a sound of breaking branches.
“Hurry up, Madron,” Iorus whispered worriedly. “Without that stone in my hand I can’t see it – and I’m afraid it’s around here somewhere.”
The boy’s face was flushed with effort and the knuckles of his fingers scratched and bleeding, but no matter how hard he tried, the moonlight alone was not enough to help him find what he sought.
“I can do it, I can do it. Just one more moment and I’ll…”
His right hand met a smooth round surface. He gripped something with his fingers and raised it to the light. “Here it is!” he exclaimed triumphantly, raising his head to show his treasure to the centurion. The man was standing immobile staring over his shoulder.
“Victor …?”
He looked at the design of the phalerae on Iorus’s armour and for an instant caught one gleam too many passing over the reliefs of the decorations.
“It’s here,” whispered Iorus. “Right behind you. I feel it but I can’t see it.”
“I see it.”
Madron turned around. A double-edged axe sparked in the air.
The boy looked out of the corner of his eye for the nearest brazier but noticed that it was no longer smoking. He spotted another, even farther away than the first, which was right in front of a large oak tree. It was still burning. He would never have time to reach it before the spectre which was only a few steps away from them and advancing slowly but inexorably. Confident of its advantage, it was taking its time.
An idea occurred to Iorus. “Give me that stone. And your sling.” Madron obeyed. The centurion loaded the sling and swung it around over his head several times.
Madron turned to where the phantom had been. “I can’t see him anymore, Victor.”
“Don’t worry,” the centurion reassured him, “in a moment it will be all…”
A gust of icy wind cut off his words. The slingshot fell from his hands and a deep dent appeared in his armour, blood seeping out between the distorted laminae.
Madron’s eyes widened. For the first time in two years he felt again that terror which snatches away the power to act and renders the body immobile.
“Madron,” Iorus mumbled, “you must… get away.”
But the boy stumbled over to the centurion and snatched the sling from his hands. In the brief moment while the black stone passed from his fingers to the sling he saw see a shadow the colour of the clouds passing by him, accompanied by a breath of icy wind. A shadow armed with a double-headed axe and intent on putting an end to its victim.
Look at me, Madron. And remember. The slingshot has to make no more than three revolutions above your head, after which the stone must be released.
One. Two…
In battle there is no time for hesitation, and two revolutions can mean throwing too close while four can mean throwing too far.
Three.
Madron let the projectile fly. The movement was accompanied by another, cold rustling.
The stone flew off through the mist that had meanwhile risen in the woods, struck the mighty oak trunk and bounced off it into the brazier’s outer plate before disappearing into the mixture of crackling herbs.
“I did it!” Madron exulted. He turned to the centurion, upon whose face was a grimace of pain that was very much like a smile.
Another abundant stream of blood flowed from the wound in his chest. Before the soldier collapsed, the boy ran over to support him.
“No! No!” shouted Madron, like a wolf howling at the moon.
“You did it, boy,” the centurion said in a faint voice. “You did very well.”
“Victor!”
Tears clouded Madron’s vision, but they did not prevent the little Celt from seeing his father’s silhouette enveloped in flames and with an arrow in his back, his mother’s butchered body, her eyes still closed and her belly swollen with what would have been his brother. And the man who had spoken to him in an unknown language to appease his fears. The man who had gently caressed him with his rough soldier’s hands to ward off the nightmare that risked sucking out his soul. The man who was now dying in his arms.
“Gods, what happened in this place?”
Madron looked up and saw Lucretius, and behind him another twenty legionaries who were scouring the bush. The beneficiarius knelt down next to the centurion. “How are you, commander?”
Iorus barely moved his eyelids.
“Wr… write.”
“We need to get you back to the camp,” said Lucretius, putting a hand on his neck. “You have a very deep wound.”
“I said… write.”
“I have nothing to write with here,” Lucretius replied in an embarrassed voice. “I didn’t think…”
“Then look for witnesses who…”
He stopped and swallowed hard and another gush of blood spurted from the wound. Red rivulets also came out of his nose and mouth.
At that moment, Lucretius understood. He looked away for a moment and bit his lip to hold back his emotions. Only when he was sure he had regained control did he look back at his commander.
“As the highest-ranking officer here, I appeal to the ius praetorium,” he said in a trembling voice, “and my testimony will suffice for what I imagine you wish to do.”
Iorus gave a smile and coughed.
“Good. So, I… Victor Iorus, first-born centurion of the fourteenth Cesarean legion…” he stopped to take a breath, “…in full possession of my mental faculties, as…” His eyes met those of Madron “…As my last will and before witnesses…” The centurion sighed and his head lolled. His helmet slowly slipped off and rolled to the ground next to him. His body shook and his eyes widened. “Not… not yet!” he said, emitting something very like a roar. “Before these witnesses,” he resumed, “I allow this slave named Madron to be freed from his duties and thus, as the last act of my life…” He paused one last time. “…I make him a free man.”
He closed his eyes and a tear slid silently down his face as a final spasm spread through the muscles of his arms. Then the centurion lay still.
Lucretius, his eyes wet with tears, looked for the child. Madron had jumped up, turned around and raised his arms as if to touch the top of the oaks that rose mightily as far as the eye could see. He cried out. A cry that ripped through the night like the sudden thunder that announces a storm. A cry that sent a shiver down the back of Lucretius, who had been intent on closing the eyes of his dead commander. A cry that emerged from the oak forest on invisible sonic tentacles which crept through the branches, slipped between the bushes and emerged into the valley, turning into a shock wave that immobilised even the soldiers standing in formation, some of whom instinctively raised their shields to protect themselves from that invisible and acutely agonising sound. Then then there was silence, long and cold, like that at the end of a storm, followed immediately afterwards by the roar of a turma of horses crashing into the woods, along with the sound of the horns that heralded the return of the vanguard of the four legions to Gergovia.
At the head of them, Gaius Julius Caesar himself, the mane of his horse so white that it lit up the night like a flaming torch. The proconsul had the animal turn around several times while his gaze took in the shreds of human flesh hanging from the high branches and saw on the faces of the dead grimaces he had never seen even on the faces of prisoners under torture. Then he stopped in front of Lucretius.
“That man is the primipilus centurion Victor Iorus…”
“Yes Caesar,” replied the beneficiarius, merely raising his head.
“A valiant officer,” said the proconsul, adding almost arrogantly. “Report?”
“In the evening we noticed strange movements in this wood,” continued Lucretius, “and Iorus decided to check what they were while the rest of the cohort continued on to the destination indicated in the orders. His patrol surprised a group of priests intent on performing a hostile ritual. That child… his name is Madron. He was Iorus’s personal slave.”
Caesar stared at the boy for a long time. Kneeling on a carpet of leaves, the lad had wrapped himself in the grey and bloodstained cloak that his fingers clutched as if it were alive, hiding himself inside at as behind a shield.
“Carry the body of this centurion and his men to the camp,” ordered Caesar. “I don’t want them buried in this place.”
The proconsul’s horse stretched out its snout and almost touched Madron’s face. The child’s lips moved jerkily as though he were reciting a litany, but without making a sound.
To general surprise, Caesar dismounted. His profile resembled the beak of some bird of prey, and, in confirmation of the impression, his penetrating gaze was like that of an eagle in search of its quarry. An almost mystical aura accompanied his movements. He approached the child and carefully placed his cloak over the boy’s shoulders. “Can anyone explain to me what happened here? What really happened?”
Madron continued to tremble, and tiny tears of blood emerged from his staring eyes. He turned and looked for something in that scene of death and devastation then, very slowly, turned back to look at Cesare. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, only a whisper of hot breath that faded into the air.
A shiver ran down the proconsul’s back.