S. J. A. Turney

The Great Revolt

‘Everything comes gradually and at its appointed hour’

— Ovid

‘And when it comes it invariably kicks seven shades of shit out of you’

— Fronto

Prologue

The ‘plain of mud and blood’. Summer 52BC.

The Gallic warrior clutched his stolen Roman blade tightly, moving stealthily between two particularly tall clumps of wormwood — very little flora had survived on the plain, between the seemingly-endless fighting, the Roman siege works and general plant clearance. The legionary on guard duty was far from his camp and his officers, and barely within sight of his nearest compatriot. He leaned on the top of his shield, which rested on the ground, his pilum jabbed into the rich earth and standing free. He was clearly fighting off the reaching arms of Morpheus.

The Gaul frowned at his own audacity. He didn’t really want to kill the lad. There had been enough killing to last a thousand lifetimes — enough blood shed to drown the thirstiest of battle Gods. And the poor lad was young. He’d been through enough. But the Gaul had only the one free hand, and that held his sword… the other fist gripped so tightly his knuckles shone white in the night.

He waited for the lad to straighten and turn, briefly checking the terrain towards the plateau and, taking advantage of the turned back, ducked from the wormwood to the narrow bole of an ash tree that would be dead before winter, its trunk deformed from sword blows where the Romans had practiced their killing. As he reached the cover of the tree, he looked out again and almost smiled. The sentry had stood his shield free, hung his helmet on the tip of his pilum and had hoisted up his tunic to take a leak into the dip.

No killing after all.

With a deep ragged breath, the Gaul sprinted across the open ground, slowing as he approached the unwitting Roman lad, busy shaking himself clear. Careful not to make a sound, the Gaul lifted his sword arm and raised it high, bringing it down pommel-first just as the sentry began to turn to retrieve his kit. There was a heavy thud, with the dull clonk of bronze on bone, and the young man folded at the knees, collapsing face down into the mud.

Too much death.

The Gaul crouched and rolled the Roman onto his back to make sure he didn’t suffocate in the cloying mud and moved on.

The burial ground was neat. Everything the Romans did was so organised and effective. That was why they would one day rule the world and all the old peoples would be gone. No, the Gaul corrected himself, they would become Roman too. The legions’ dead were in ordered rows on one side of the flat field, the Gauls on the other. Not the bulk of the departed, of course. There were simply too many to give this kind of respect. The ordinary soldiers of Rome were in a mass grave — a great pile of ash and bone from the enormous funeral pyres that had burned for three days and nights, filling the world with the smell of Roasting pork. The Romans had fed the pyre ceaselessly with both timber and bodies, and only when the last legionary was dust, they had swept it into the centre of the excavated ditch and piled earth upon the top, erecting a monument formed from captured spears, helmets, shields and banners by which to remember the fallen.

For all their fearsome reputation, the Romans had treated the native dead with exactly the same respect. The larger pile of native ash lay beneath another mound on the far side of the plain.

But here in the middle lay the ordered rows of the notable dead. Romans commemorated with a wooden marker carved with their name, helmets, swords, torcs and the like hanging from the top to help identify them and the rank they held. Sons of Rome who led armies of thousands would be buried there, alongside their standard bearers, centurions and optios.

The Gallic honoured dead were considerably fewer, of course. Hardly any had their names marked, for the Romans knew not who they were. They were mostly commemorated only by the richness of their gear, displayed above the resting place of their ashes, only the few leaders that had been identified by the prisoners bearing a named marker.

The Gaul shook his head at the insanity of it all, and set off among the ordered lines.

It didn’t take him long to find the grave he sought. It was strange to think that such a vital man could have become ash and nothing more, just one among hundreds lying here in the earth. If the Gaul had had any truck with Gods, he might think the man and his silent companions had gone on to some divine after-world, but he knew in his heart of hearts that ash was all they would be. Ash and darkness, and unfeeling silence.

He looked down at the wooden marker with a sense of sadness tempered only by the knowledge that this man had been his enemy. A glittering sword hung on the wooden marker. In coming days that weapon would be stolen by one of the numerous scavengers who would move in when the Roman force left. Its beautiful orichalcum hilt, embossed with shapely Gods, identified it as a very valuable item.

‘I never wanted this. You know that,’ the Gaul whispered. ‘I argued against the whole thing.’

He was hardly surprised when a tear leaked from the corner of his eye and drove a channel through the caked dirt, sweat and mud on his cheek. He looked down at his clenched fist and, with seeming reluctance, turned it over and unfolded the fingers. The bronze pendant of the Roman Goddess Fortuna gleamed in the faint moonlight. He had apparently been gripping it so tightly it had cut his hand in half a dozen places, and a patina of watery crimson tinted the metal.

How appropriate.

‘Luck apparently wasn’t with us.’ He prepared to cast the bronze figurine onto the grave, but paused with a sad smile.

‘Actually, I think I’ll hang onto it a while yet. After this disaster, I think any of us could use a little extra luck. Go to your Gods peacefully.’

Fastening the thong around his neck and tucking the figurine into his tunic, he fetched out of his purse the other thing he had brought — that had brought him here? Two shattered shards of slate, etched with shapes and strange arcane words that had once formed a whole. With a sigh, the Gaul crouched and jabbed the two shards into the freshly-turned earth above the buried jar of ashes. Standing once more, he placed his worn boot-sole upon the dreadful broken thing and pushed it down into the grave, out of sight.

‘Let it end there, in silence and darkness.’

He looked up and across the flat ground, towards the oppidum of Alesia that rose above the valleys and the plain like an upturned ship. Land of the lost.

‘Let it all end here.’

With a last sad look at the grave and the beautiful, rich sword, the Gaul turned, away from the man’s resting place, away from the silent rows of the slain, away from the Roman host, away from the last stand of Gaul and towards an uncertain future.

PART ONE: OPENING MOVES

Chapter 1

Massilia, some months previously.

Fronto missed his step and stumbled, brushing painfully against the wall. For a moment he paused, hardly daring to breathe, and listening intently for any sound. His eyes automatically strayed along the wall to the location of one of the hidden weapons and he silently chided himself for such a reaction. The background hum of the building’s occupants was barely audible from outside, and after a count of twenty he decided that he was safe and that no one had heard. Allowing himself a long, slow exhale which plumed in the cold winter air, he straightened from the wall, reaching out to one of the columns in the colonnade. Very carefully and being as quiet as possible, he looked down at the crusty dark red stain on his leg. Damn it!

As carefully as he could he lifted his foot, causing the faintest of scrapes from the gravel underfoot.

‘Stop sneaking around like a thief and get back inside.’

Fronto felt himself jump, leaving the ground in shock for a moment, and turned to note in particular the arched brow of Lucilia where she stood behind him, her fists on her hips in the universal sign of a disgruntled spouse. The army could use a couple of hundred of her, he thought, aware that after two decades of military service and at the peak of his physical fitness he had not even reached the safety of the gate before messing up and making a noise, and yet this delectable — if irascible — young woman had managed to plant herself right behind him absolutely silently.

His heart seemed to be attempting to set some kind of speed record as he plastered his most ingratiating smile across his face.

‘Listen, beloved…’

‘Be quiet,’ she said in a calm, quiet voice that somehow managed to contain all the power and command of a military order backed by horns and standards. He had shut up before he had even thought about whether to… Lucilia certainly had that quality about her. She pursed her lips and Fronto experienced a moment of hope that he wasn’t in trouble, but then realised it wasn’t a matter of absolutes, but the degree of trouble that she was considering.

‘You agreed to the deal, Marcus. One more season… perhaps two. But you are a father now, and not getting any younger, and as soon as Caesar has this new province calmed and this rebellion you keep whiffling on about is put down, you are handing over your command and settling. Even Galronus has taken a step back from the army.’

Fronto felt the lurch that he experienced every time he thought of retirement and almost spoke, but stopped himself in time.

‘And once you have done that,’ she went on, ‘whatever you decide to do…’ she held up a warning finger, ‘and no, it will not involve any kind of arena or stadium,’ Fronto felt his spirits sink a little lower again, ‘you will need connections and the goodwill of the leading figures in the city. Remember, Marcus, that we are not in Rome now. In fact we are not even in the Republic as long as Massilia remains an independent city. We are subject to their laws and decisions.’

She pointed an angry finger at the doorway that led inside. It had never looked more like an executioner’s blade to Fronto. Her voice jacked up a notch.

‘My father — your friend — has put a lot of effort into getting those men here tonight. Five of the city’s most important men, and they are all here to see you. All so that you can form a network of allies in local government rather than blundering along as you normally do, like a blind hedgehog in a maze. It has been almost ten minutes since you went to the latrine, and if I have to listen to my father make one more embarrassing ‘pushing out a difficult one’ comment, I swear I will not be responsible for the murder spree of Olympian proportions that will ensue.’

Fronto quailed under that gaze and found that he was nodding meekly, again without having consciously made that decision. Somehow without Galronus around to add a little strength to his backbone, he seemed to cave all the easier.

‘Now get your sorry backside back into that villa and put on a show of being an erudite, grateful and entertaining social host so that all this effort is not for nothing.’

Fronto nodded again and watched as her eyes fell to the stain on his leg.

‘But go via the atrium and clean off that leg quickly in the impluvium pool. And it’s dripped on your shoes too, so change them for your spares — the soft ones, mind, and not those clod-hopping nailed military abominations.’

Fronto managed to recover a little and smiled disarmingly. ‘Beloved, you need to lower your voice,’ he said in a quiet and calm fashion. ‘You’ll wake the boys.’

‘The boys,’ she replied in a dangerous tone, ‘are out for the night now. You exhausted them earlier, and don’t think I didn’t see you dipping your finger in the wine and rubbing it on their gums. I told you before that when I saw you do that again I would have you dipped in the horse trough and you could sleep in the stables for the night.’

Fronto’s meek nod returned as his resistance drained. Things had been so different at the villa since Galronus had taken ship for Campania a month ago. He had lost his support and had never felt quite so exposed to feminine control. Damn the man!

‘Where were you going anyway?’

Fronto swallowed. If he even dared mention the Dancing Ox, his favourite little tavern down in the city, he knew he would wake the next day with a world-shaking headache. ‘Erm…’ he said, his mind racing to try and find an acceptable reason to be out in the front courtyard in the dark of a Ianuarius evening.

‘I thought I heard horses,’ he rattled out, trying hard to sound convincing and, as he saw Lucilia narrow her eyes, he cupped his hand to his ear. Yes. Definitely. Running horses. A lifeline to grasp for.

‘You don’t think I would leave you alone tonight? I went to the latrines, but I was taking the long route back for fresh air when I heard them. Do you hear them?’

Lucilia gave him another dangerous look. ‘Yes. Though unless they’ve been running on the spot for the last few minutes or you have developed godlike hearing, you are talking utter rubbish.

‘Shh…’

Her eyes widened and blazed as Fronto put a finger to his lips and frowned, turning in the direction of the increasing noise of drumming hooves.

‘Don’t you dare…’

This time, Fronto placed his finger on her lips and the look he shot her stopped her anger in its tracks. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘Those are cavalry, not civilians, and armoured, too.’

‘Really? Whose? Ours? Gauls? How do you know?’

Fronto simply peered out into the night. The regular, syncopated drumming hooves of three riders who were familiar and comfortable with a shared pace. The sound of mail shirts shushing with the horses’ motion. The rattle of metal fittings, scabbards and helmets. Almost certainly Roman. If they were Gauls they were the more Romanized variety and using similar kit, but then there were tribes like that. Probably no threat, but then, as Lucilia had just reminded him, they were not actually within the republic’s bounds here.

Wordlessly he crossed to a large plant pot from which grew a well-trimmed shrub and reached down behind it, into the narrow gap against the wall. With a measured breath he withdrew a plain, traditional soldier’s gladius and slid it from the scabbard.

‘When did you put that there?’

Fronto, still peering off across the dark ground beyond the villa’s low wall, shrugged. ‘I have a few in handy hiding places.’

‘You’ll move them before the boys start walking,’ she hissed.

‘Lucilia,’ he replied, pressing his finger harder against her lips as he raised the sword ready, the thunder of hooves so close now their noise was almost deafening in the quiet night air.

The figures resolved slowly as they rounded the small copse of trees that marked the edge of the villa’s grounds and the fork in the drive that separated the road to their home and that of Lucilia’s father. Fronto tried to pick out the details of the three men, but all he could tell was that they appeared to be cloaked and mailed and moving at pace. He hefted the blade again, glinting in the moonlight.

The three horses pounded along the gravel road and through the gate. Fronto stared at these intruders. They could hardly be hostile, for their blades were still sheathed, but they were hairy, tangled, messy fellows, wrapped in travel cloaks and stained armour and…

He frowned, and the furrowed brow slowly resolved into a wicked, dark grin. His sword lowered.

‘What in the name of seven fallen Vestals happened to you? You look like a hairy cow’s arse.’ Fronto leaned against the doorframe and shook his head with a grin. ‘No, no, no. You make a cow’s arse look good.’

Priscus slipped from the horse and landed badly, almost falling. It was only then that Fronto saw through the hair and the dust and dirt of the journey and realised how bone-tired — how truly exhausted — and deadly serious his friend was. He straightened, allowing all humour to drain from him once more. The rather battered and scarred figures of Furius and Fabius on the horses behind bore that same look, which made Fronto swallow noisily as the pair slid from their saddles and joined Priscus, one of them shutting the gate behind him and securing the courtyard.

‘What’s up?’ Fronto breathed.

Priscus straightened, stretched, and nodded to the villa’s master. ‘This city still have Caesar’s courier office?’

‘Of course.’ Now Fronto was worried. ‘Why?’

‘Then let’s get down there. I have to write a letter to the general and I’ll need your authority to get it sent expedited.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Preferably yesterday, but tonight will have to do.’

Fronto shook his head. ‘The courier service doesn’t operate during the hours of darkness by Massilian law, just like any other business. It’ll have to wait ‘til first light tomorrow. Besides, I’ve seen you write letters. It’s like watching an ape reading Plautus: slow and painful. It’ll take most of the night for you to write it!’

Priscus sagged a little. ‘Fronto, this is urgent.’

Fabius and Furius walked their horses forward — on his nicely tended lawn, noticed Fronto — and the latter clapped his hand on his commander’s shoulder. ‘It’s been weeks, Priscus. One night more will make no difference.’

There was a long pause and finally Priscus nodded. Fronto was about to reply with a cutting remark concerning their hirsute barbarian appearance when Lucilia stepped to his side, her eyes wide. ‘Gnaeus?’

Priscus gave an exhausted smile. ‘Lucilia.’

The young woman, immaculate and dressed in an elegant pale green chiton with gold accessories, jabbed Fronto so hard in the ribs he wheeled on her, his eyes bright.

‘What was that for?’

‘Being a terrible host.’ She pushed open the front door, raised her voice and shouted inside. ‘Eudora? Send for the stable boy and tell him there are three horses here to groom, feed and then settle in. And tell the cook that we have impromptu dinner guests to add to our gathering. Three soldiers with, I suspect, very healthy appetites.’ As Fronto stood, flapping his lips wordlessly in the face of his wife’s stream of commands, her handmaid Eudora appeared. Lucilia went on without pause. ‘And make sure the furnace is stoked and the baths are clean. Make up three rooms in the south wing with fresh linen and water bowls, then send for Antinos and tell him there will be plenty of armour and weapons wanting cleaning and oiling.’

Eudora nodded her understanding, clearly having somehow memorised a list of which Fronto had already forgotten all but the last two things, and scurried off.

Fronto turned an embarrassed and faintly apologetic look on the guests and was about to speak when Lucilia hauled him inside.

‘Sorry for my boorish husband, Gnaeus… and you too, Lucius and Tullus. The Gods alone know how he manages with all the discipline and ritual of the legions, when he can’t even manage the simplest of courtesies at home.

Fabius and Furius shared a look that Fronto caught and noted down for future reference when they pissed him off and he wanted an excuse. Priscus simply smiled.

‘I would dearly love to bathe and change clothes, I have to admit. I have not bathed since we passed through Narbo, and even that was a poor excuse for a bath. Sadly we are standing in all the clothes we own right now.’

Lucilia shook her head. ‘Marcus has a small mountain of new tunics, boots, socks and so on that he never touches because they’re not ‘worn in and comfortable’. Apparently, ‘worn in and comfortable’ means shabby, dirty and almost past saving. Come in, you three, where it’s warm. The Ianuarius air is unusually temperate, but it still carries a chill. Since you’ve closed the gate, your horses can roam the lawn freely until they’re tended to. Would that Galronus and my dear sister in law were here to greet you, but they are back at Puteoli, with Marcus’ mother. Family business,’ she added with a sly smile.

The three visiting soldiers stepped into the atrium, and Priscus narrowed his eyes, looking sidelong at Fronto as he scratched at several days’ growth of beard. ‘There’s trouble afoot, my friend. We are in the proverbial sewer and Jupiter just took a mountain-sized shit!’ He suddenly remembered their company and turned an apologetic look to Lucilia, who brushed it aside.

‘If you heard some of the filth my father and my husband come out with together over a few cups, you wouldn’t worry about a word like that.’

‘Priscus!’ hissed Fronto.

‘Sorry, yes. We were down at Gergovia among the Arverni, managing to set up deals and arrangements with a few of the native nobles who were apparently still pro-Rome when Gaul basically erupted next to us.’

Fronto frowned.

‘Our friend Vercingetorix — who we used to know as Esus — is on the ascent, Fronto. He took Gergovia with a force of loyal rebels and put all dissenters to the sword. We barely made it out alive, and we’ve been running ever since, heading for yourself and Caesar.’

‘Via Narbo?’

‘We overheard the Gaulish shi… scumbag… saying that they’d destroyed the mercantile station at Cenabum and cut the supply lines up there, so we couldn’t trust the Rhodanus valley. We came over the mountains and south. And it was a bugger of a trip, too. Have you any idea how high the passes are. There’s a lot of snow this time of year, too.’

‘Do you think it was just the first move in the game?’ Fronto hazarded. ‘Are they starting to pull things together at the moment, or do you think they’re already moving and putting their plan into action?’

Priscus pursed his lips and regarded Fronto levelly. ‘What do you think? They’ve just taken over the Arverni by force, and they’re obviously allied with the Carnutes now, ‘cause it was them who flattened Cenabum. How long would they now have to plan before any tribes still allied to us took action? No. They must already have had most things in place before a move as overt as this. The big rising we’ve been expecting is already happening, and we’re totally unprepared, despite everything we’ve done.’

The legate of the Tenth nodded his agreement as a slave arrived carrying a tray bearing two jugs and four cups, hovering expectantly. Fronto grabbed the tray and placed it atop the lararium — the altar to the household spirits — that stood close to the door. As the man scuttled off, Fronto poured four cups of wine and left the others to water their own, tipping barely a mouthful of dilutant into his own. He may have already spilled on his leg, but it was not through drunkenness.

‘If they are making their move, the bastard’s timed it nicely. Caesar’s in Aquileia, the legions are in the north, and the officers are scattered about either up there or on furlough down here. It’ll take time to pull everything together, and I’d be willing to bet that’s what the Arverni turd’s counting on.’

Lucilia gave the four men an indulgent smile and excused herself, ducking back through into one of the interior rooms. ‘I shall just go and inform father of your arrival and explain to the others.’

Priscus gave Fronto a questioning look and the legate shrugged. ‘Half a dozen knob-heads from the local government Lucilia wants me to brown-nose. I’ve half a mind to take you in to meet them like this. Would do them all good to see what a proper soldier looks like.’ He sighed. ‘But Lucilia would tear me a second arsehole for that. Anyway, before you bathe and meet politicians, back to the problem at hand.’

‘It may be a problem,’ threw in Fabius as he reached for the water and topped up his mug before draining it in one long gulp, ‘but we still have an advantage.’

‘Oh? How so?’

‘On our journey we confirmed that the supply lines have been severed. No word has reached the south of anything strange, despite at least one major Roman depot burning. None of the merchants have returned from the north, either, and the traders in Narbonensis are already whispering of trouble and pulling out any interests they have upriver. Given that, it’s reasonable to assume that the rebels are sitting happy, believing that the legions and the general are both living in ignorant bliss of any trouble. But we do know. And soon, so will Caesar. Perhaps we can turn that unpreparedness into an advantage?’

‘But the general will still be mired down with Rome, surely? What with Pompey and Clodius and so on.’ Priscus frowned, and Fronto gave him a strange smile.

‘Of course, you won’t have heard! Clodius was killed in a scuffle on the Appian Way a month or so ago, and Pompey is winding his neck in a bit now, for fear of any flying blame sticking to him, since it appears Milo was involved. If ever Caesar had a lull to deal with Gaul, this is it. The timing is propitious and owes much to Fortuna.’ He took a gulp of wine and nodded. ‘I like your thinking, Fabius. Knowing more than the enemy believe you do is always an advantage.’

As the four men swigged their drinks, a slave appeared, bowing. ‘The bath house is ready, Dominus.’

Fronto nodded and gestured to the others. ‘Go and get yourselves cleaned up, then you can keep me sane while we entertain a few local donkeys, then when we’re done with that farce, we’ll sit down over a few cups and hammer out the details of this message to Caesar. The couriers can have the despatch with him in about four days, and I would lay bets that in the same amount of time again, the general will be at my door on his way north.”

As the other three wandered off, following the slave to the baths, Fronto glanced back towards the door through which Lucilia had retreated.

And that would give him little more than a week with her and the boys before the never-ending wars in Gaul drew him northwards once more.

* * * * *

The oppidum of Gergovia in Arverni lands.

Cavarinos rubbed his chin reflexively. He’d had a thick beard tugged downward by a copper ring ever since he had grown to manhood, and it was taking some getting used to the absence of the same, his bushy, bristling moustache doing little to make up for its loss. He stole a sharp glance at his brother, Critognatos, who stood waiting, looking a little bored and fidgety, stroking his luxurious facial mop, and Cavarinos grunted irritably. He should never have shaved the damn thing off, but it had been the last straw when someone had mistaken him for his brother so thoroughly that he had been unable to convince them of their mistake. No, the beard had had to go for that reason alone. It was little consolation that he now looked more like most of the Arverni warriors, including their glorious leader. He’d liked his beard.

Ripping his hand tetchily from his chin, Cavarinos settled his helmet on his head, considered tying the strap that joined the cheek-pieces, but realised how that would feel on his bristly chin and gave up, drumming his fingers on the pommel of the heavy sword at his side.

‘Can you hear Lucterius and his Cadurci warriors on the move already, while we sit here and wait?’ Critognatos snapped angrily as he stomped over to the window and peered through the gap at the scene outside. Cavarinos could hear the assembled warriors waiting expectantly, horses snorting and stomping, mail shushing and metalwork clunking. It was irritating him too, but he was determined to draw as definite a line as possible between his brother and himself. Patience.

‘There’s no rush, brother. The Bituriges aren’t going anywhere.’

Critognatos snorted, his face contorting into a boar-like snout of spite. That was better — now they did not resemble one another at all — and turned from the window.

‘We should not be fighting other tribes. We should be fighting Romans. The Gods have brought us to this place and time because they despise the Romans and their childish idols.’ He snorted again. ‘You’ve seen the statues in their temples… great God-fathers who look more like women-folk. Wearing togas’ — he spat the word with venom — ‘and carrying mere sticks. No wonder great Taranis waits to ride his chariot over the beaten body of their womanly Jupiler!’

‘Jupiter.’

‘What?’

‘Their Gods-father is called Jupiter. Or Jove, I believe. Not Jupiler.’

Critognatos narrowed his eyes as he stormed across the room, waving an angry finger. ‘Who gives a shit what his name is? The important thing is for the great lord of Thunder to nail the bastard to a tree and tear out his innards.’

‘You do talk absolute bollocks, brother.’ Cavarinos curled his lip, calm in the face of the wagging finger. ‘The Gods have not brought us to this place and time for hatred of their Roman counterparts. The Gods have not brought us to this place and time at all! Vercingetorix’s leadership and charisma have brought us here, along with a healthy dose of desperation and anger among the other tribes and the underhanded dealings of those forest-shepherds the druids.’

Critognatos made several warding signs against the displeasure of the Gods, glaring at his brother. ‘Without the Gods…’

‘Without the Gods,’ Cavarinos interjected with a roll of his eyes, ‘we would have been out from under the shadows of the shepherds centuries ago and building a world on the rule of ordinary men that would rival Rome. Romans revere their Gods, but I do not think that they truly believe in them. That is why they are practical and their empire is strong. And do not mistake superstition for faith, brother. Faith is what I have in our people and in Vercingetorix. Superstition is what you have for the Gods.’

Again, Critognatos warded himself, so vehemently that he stumbled against one of the pillars that circled the central fire pit. He righted himself and Cavarinos braced at the look of zealous indignation in his brother’s eyes. Here came the tirade…

‘I trust you two are behaving?’

The voice cut across the room and immediately severed the invisible cords of tension. The brothers turned to see Vergasillaunus striding in through the rear door, his bronze armour gleaming, a blue cloak swirling from his shoulders in a strangely Roman style. The brothers fell silent. In the hierarchy of both the Arverni tribe and the Gallic host entire, Vergasillaunus was second only in authority to Vercingetorix, his uncle’s son. Despite the fact that Cavarinos and his brother were high nobles and leaders of men in their own right from the nearby oppidum of Nemossos, they both knew where the true power in this place lay, and much of that flowed around the shining figure who had just joined them.

Vergasillaunus gave an easy smile. ‘Relax, you two. As soon as Lucterius and his army are down the hill and clear of the oppidum we will be marshalling and ready to move. We and our allies are about to show the world that the Arverni serpent has two fanged heads.’

Critognatos’ lip curved into a sickened look, as though he had eaten something bad. ‘Lucterius is lucky. He moves against Narbonensis and the Romans. He will bathe in their blood and win glory for himself and his men. What glory is there for us bringing war against the Bituriges?’

Vergasillaunus frowned and turned to Cavarinos. ‘I thought all this had been explained to everyone the other day?’

The newly-bristly noble gave a sarcastic-looking shrug. ‘For some people, knowledge has more bone to pass through and less brain to settle in on the other side.’

His brother furrowed his brow for a moment as though struggling to comprehend, and Cavarinos barked out a short laugh. ‘Yes, brother, it was an insult.’

Before Critognatos could launch himself at his brother, Vergasillaunus stepped into the way.

‘Listen to me, Critognatos. The Bituriges are one of many tribes that still waver and hold true to their oath with Rome. If we are to truly gather all the strength of the tribes, we have to tear away the invisible ropes that bind them to Caesar. We start with the Bituriges because they are close to us and they are still weak, and because they lie between us and the Carnutes, our staunch allies. We have but to take Avaricon from them and the whole tribe will fold under the pressure and pledge to us. And when they do, other tribes will follow.’

‘Like the Aedui?’ Cavarinos asked, a calculating expression filling his handsome, bronzed face.

‘Yes, like the Aedui. They are Caesar’s strongest allies in our lands.’

‘Then that is why Litavicus of the Aedui was here this morning, prowling around, lurking like a bad smell? I never trusted that young madman, even when we and the Aedui were close.’

Vergasillaunus chuckled. ‘You do not miss a thing, do you, my friend? Yes, Litavicus was here to speak to the chief on very private matters.’

‘I still do not like this,’ grunted Critognatos, rubbing his head vigorously until a few dead insects fell out of it with the cloud of dust. ‘We began all this to drive out the Romans, and yet we lead our warriors to their death against other tribes who should be revelling in battle alongside us. We should all be one army, marching across the mountains down to Rome and doing what Brennus did centuries ago, ripping the heads off their priests and pissing down their hollow necks!’

‘Idiot,’ snorted Cavarinos, and Vergasillaunus had again to make his presence felt as Critognatos stopped scratting and lunged forward for his brother, his face purpling with anger.

‘Now, now, children. Enough of this.’ He stepped back, opening a small space between himself and the furious nobleman, lifting his manicured hands and placing them on the bigger man’s shoulders. ‘We would all love to march on Rome and tear down their Gods, my friend, and some of the druids have been advocating that very thing. But with ten legions encamped in the north, what do you think would happen if we marched to Rome?’

Critognatos glowered sullenly but made no reply.

‘They would utterly destroy our lands. When we came back there would be no homes to return to. We would find only smoking ruins, murdered women, children and greybeards, and many thousands of sated Roman legionaries.’

‘I still don’t like fighting other tribes when there are Romans about who are more deserving.’

Vergasillaunus, his face starting to show rare signs of ire, grasped the trembling form of Critognatos and with some force turned him towards the exit. Urging him forward, he grasped the handle and ripped open the door. ‘What do you see, Critognatos of the Arverni?’

Past the pair, Cavarinos could make out the seething mass of Arverni warriors who waited patiently for their chieftains to arrive and then set forth against the Bituriges. Every man out there was ready for battle, from the older men who wore their shirts of mail and gripped well-worn sword hilts, past the rising cream of the tribe — the younger bloods who bore their captured Roman arms and armour as trophies — to the farmers and craftsmen and the youngest — not yet old enough to grow a moustache and bare-chested, gripping their poor-quality spears. Cavarinos bore the suspicion that Vercingetorix and his cousin had plans in place to bring over the Bituriges without a fight, but if it came to storming Avaricon, every man here would do so willingly for their leader. It was glorious. It was a proud thing for the Arverni. It was a potential waste of epic proportions, though he would hardly voice any thought that seemed like agreement with Critognatos. Cavarinos’ bitter thoughts were overridden as his brother answered the question

‘I see an army that should be fighting Romans.’

‘What you see here, Critognatos,’ the senior chieftain replied patiently, ‘is somewhere in the region of six or seven thousand men. Lucterius has just taken two thousand more south and expects to triple that on his journey. So this morning there were perhaps nine thousand men here. How many Romans are quartered in the north this winter?’

Critognatos cleared his throat. ‘Ten legions.’

‘Yes. Ten legions. That means fifty thousand men if they are at full strength, which they might well be after months of idleness. And that is not counting their auxiliary archers and slingers and the many thousands of horsemen raised from the Belgae and other tribes who ally with them. It would be foolish indeed to take nine thousand men against fifty thousand, would it not?’

The grumbling brother made faintly affirmative noises.

‘And even if we drew in all the allies who have pledged to us so far, we will still not match their numbers. We have to have the rest of the tribes on our side if we are to beat Rome. And if we wish to do so, we need to catch them at their lowest time, while they are still in winter quarters and their general is still across the Alpes. We will be ready to move before the spring, my friend, but we cannot move until we are strong enough to be at least reasonably assured of success.’

He slapped the irritable warrior on the shoulder in a supportive manner.

‘We all think we have different ways to succeed, Critognatos, and Vercingetorix and I have considered every possible angle and each idea that has been brought before us, but this is the only sensible direction to take. Trust us, my friend. We may all have different thoughts on the matter, but we all have the same goal in mind: to crush the Romans and free our lands for ourselves.’

Cavarinos watched as the pair walked out into the cold sunlight and the door shut behind them with a heavy thump as the conversation went on, Vergasillaunus doing his best to persuade Critognatos of the sense of his words.

For a long moment Cavarinos stood alone in the room, trying not to let that same scene replay itself in his mind which had been rising in his dreams so many nights now. Yet again, he failed.

A tavern in the Aedui capital of Bibracte less than a year ago. He and Vergasillaunus and a number of the stronger warriors of the warband accompanying Vercingetorix as he sat at a table and talked of matters with the Roman officers who happened to be passing through.

He remembered the Roman commander well. A man with the look of a survivor of many battles, yet with eyes that glittered with intellect and who spoke to Vercingetorix as to an equal. Dressed in Roman tunic, and yet with a good torc of Belgic design around his neck. And with him not the pasty-skinned senatorial officers from Rome, but a weathered legionary who reeked of common sense and earthiness, an ebony-skinned man from the lands beyond the south sea, and a noble of the Remi, masters of horse.

Most of all, he remembered the tingle of hope he had felt when Vercingetorix and the Roman had spoken. There had been a level of respect and understanding between them that he had not expected. When the great chief had broached the subject of a peaceful solution, albeit one Vercingetorix had never for a moment believed in, the Roman had seemed surprisingly receptive.

From the first days when the Arverni had watched Caesar’s legions march into the lands just north of them, following the Helvetii, Cavarinos had been champing at the bit to bring war against the legions, and it had taken five long years for anything to happen, to bring the possibility of opposition. Over that time the Roman presence here had grown each year, with ever more legionaries stationed among the tribes, bringing death and fire. And Cavarinos had left the oppidum of Nemossos with his brother and joined Vercingetorix and Vergasillaunus at Gergovia and begun the great task of uniting the tribes.

But now he was beginning to feel shaky on the whole subject, though he would never have admitted as such to any of his companions. Since that meeting in Bibracte with the Roman officer, he had time and again questioned in his own head the need for a grand rising and battle, when weighed against the possibility of peaceful terms. The very idea that there could be concord without such bloodshed was tempting fruit. But the shepherds of the people were rabid these days. They would not stop now until they had opened the gut of every last Roman on their flat stones. And Vercingetorix? What of him? Cavarinos had long suspected that what had driven the great chief had not been so much the need to drive out Rome, but rather the desire to unite the tribes of what Romans called ‘Gaul’ under his own royal thumb.

He shook his head.

It was just a dream of peace… an ephemeral mirage that shifted under scrutiny and showed itself to be in fact a scene of bare-faced war. Whether negotiation had ever been a possibility, things had now gone too far. And even if he had still clutched to the idea that terms might be agreed, now Lucterius marched south with two thousand bloodthirsty warriors, gathering other tribes as he passed with the Roman city of Narbo in his sights. It would take weeks for the warband to reach Narbonensis gathering men as it went, but the moment that warband crossed the invisible but all-so-important line into Roman lands, any hope of a peaceful solution was gone forever. Cavarinos might not know Caesar and his like well, but he was clear on that nonetheless.

Lucterius would destroy the meagre garrison of Narbonensis easily and with that one strike he would begin the war. Caesar would rush to wrap things up and return to his legions, but by the time he moved to the north and reached them, the army of Vercingetorix would be a rival for his legions; the largest force the tribes had ever assembled.

The last battle was coming, and before winter either Caesar or Vercingetorix would find themselves in total control of the land. And how could Caesar possibly learn of all this, mobilise and reach his army in the north before it was all too late?

With a sigh, Cavarinos shook all this foolishness from his head, walked to the door and stepped outside, just in time to see Vercingetorix arriving to greet his army.

* * * * *

Aquileia, seat of the Governor of Cisalpine Gaul

Aulus Ingenuus, prefect in command of Caesar’s praetorian cavalry guard, fiddled with the buckle on his baldric, the missing fingers on his right hand making the task difficult. Over the past six years since he had lost those fingers in battle and found favour with the general he had managed to train himself to write with his left hand. He was now a reasonably effective swordsman with the left, and could manage almost any task assigned to him, but a fibula — a decorative buckle — was still troublesome.

‘Damn the thing!’ he snapped angrily, almost dropping his sword on the floor, but his slave was there instantly, grasping the scabbard and lifting it as he fastened the buckle for his master. Recovering his mood, Ingenuus nodded the little Syrian his thanks and adjusted the blade so that it hung just right before stringing his belt around his middle and waiting patiently while the slave fastened that too.

He really should just let the slave do it all, but it was a constant niggle to the young commander that such a simple, mundane task was still beyond him, and he would never stop trying.

Brushing back his hair, which would need cutting soon, he looked himself up and down in the bronze mirror. A mature soldier with slightly haunted eyes, well-muscled arms and legs, no few scars visible as narrow white lines, and a strong jaw looked back at him.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered, in his head still the young cavalry decurion who had distinguished himself those six years ago.

‘Your pardon, Dominus?’ queried the slave.

‘Nothing, Elyas. Make my bed and go into the town. See if you can procure me some fruit that’s not an apple for a change.’

Ignoring the bow and retreat of the slave, Ingenuus gave himself one last critical look in the mirror and then nodded his approval before opening the door, strolling out of the room and into the corridor beyond.

The palace was quiet, unusually quiet for this time of the morning, and Ingenuus’ superstitious mind told him that was a sign of bad times to come. Most of the staff were not officially supposed to start this early, of course, but the Proconsul slept little and light and was rarely still abed when Aurora wafted her rosy fingers across the horizon. And with Caesar being active early, it was a courageous underling who slept later and took advantage of the letter of the law.

Squaring his shoulders, he set off on his usual morning rounds. Through a series of corridors lined with marble busts, painted in lifelike colours and recently touched-up at the general’s request he strode until he reached the front entrance to the palace and the steps down to the main street of Aquileia. The two men on guard there were perfectly turned-out and standing to attention just as he’d expected. His cavalry were all good men. Over the years he had weeded out the few who were not up to scratch and replaced them with chosen men from other mounted units, drawn by the prestige and the pay in equal amounts.

With a nod to the two men, he turned back inside and marched on through the corridors to the office of his clerk, who was busy scribbling tiny scratched marks on a wax tablet behind a desk overburdened with documentation. The clerk only looked up as the door opened, but he was on his feet before Ingenuus came to a stop, the stylus forgotten and lying on the desk.

‘Good morning, prefect.’

‘Morning, Strabo. What’s the news today?’

Without having to look down at his records, the clerk cleared his throat. ‘Largus and Satrius still in the hospital, sir. Largus does not seem to be throwing off the illness, but there is no blood in his sputum, so the medicus tells me it is only a matter of time and recuperation. Satrius is now hobbling, sir, but will be out of action for at least a week still, and will only be fit for light duties for a further two. You have two pending requests for leave before the campaigning season begins.’

‘And your opinion on those, Strabo?’

‘Frankly, sir, I would turn down Allidius, as his home is south of Rome and the journey time would make any leave finish perilously close to when he might be needed. Rectus is only from Cremona though, sir. He could be there and back in short order.’

Ingenuus shook his head. ‘Cannot penalise a man on account of geography. If Allidius cannot go because we are too close to marching season, then neither can Rectus. Tell them that once the season is over I will sanction an extended leave for them both.’

‘Very good sir.’

‘Anything else?’

‘All fine otherwise, sir. The new bridles should arrive later today, barring unforeseen mercantile delays, and the three spare mounts were delivered yesterday by Olichus the horse trader and are now in the training school.’

‘Excellent.’ Ingenuus straightened. ‘Be about your business then, Strabo, and I shall see you later.’

The man saluted and Ingenuus departed the office, leaving the door to close with a click, and strolled on. Next stop: Caesar. As he rounded a corner and found himself in the wide vestibule that led to the Proconsul’s office, lined with statues of the Julii clan and of Venus Genetrix, the family’s divine mother, he was almost knocked sideways as a slave scurried out of another side corridor. The small Spaniard — whom Ingenuus recognised vaguely from having seen around in the palace only recently — stared wide eyed and then dropped his head and rattled out a string of apparently heartfelt apologies in his thick Iberian accent.

‘Clumsy idiot,’ Ingenuus grumbled, sweeping aside the matter with his three fingered hand as he righted himself once more. The slave backed away and the commander noted the hardened leather scroll case in his hand. An official courier’s case.

‘That is for the general?’

‘Yes Dominus. Arrived by dispatch rider at the palace gate only a moment ago. I was instructed that it was of the utmost urgency and to deliver it to the proconsul immediately.’

Ingenuus nodded. He briefly contemplated suggesting he take the scroll, but he had no authority over the palace slaves and the messenger would not give up his burden without argument.

‘Come with me.’

As he neared the end of the vestibule, the scurrying slave at his heel, he nodded to the two cavalry soldiers standing beside the office door. The men saluted him, yet stepped half a step closer together and crossed their spears over the door between them.

‘Docendo discimus,’ Ingenuus said clearly and watched in approval as the spears uncrossed in response to the password and the men stepped apart. Caesar had argued against the need for guards and passwords on the door of his office when the entire palace was under the same measure of security, but Ingenuus had calmly pointed out how only a month earlier the powerful and influential Clodius Pulcher had been waylaid on the Via Appia and slaughtered in a bloodbath. Given the current mood of Roman politics, Ingenuus was not about to relinquish even an ounce of control over the general’s safety.

One step closer and the commander rapped neatly on the door.

‘Come,’ came the muffled command from within.

The young prefect opened the door and stepped inside, bowing sharply and then striding over to the proconsul’s desk where he came to a halt at an attentive stance. The slave hurried up next to him and bowed deeply, clearly unsure as to whether to approach before the two Romans had spoken.

‘Give him the scroll you fool,’ snapped Ingenuus and harrumphed in disapproval as the slave fumbled the scroll case and almost dropped it before managing to pass it across to the proconsul, who took it without comment. The slave bowed again and retreated from the room, closing the door with a click and leaving the two men alone.

Caesar turned the scroll case over in his hands and finally plucked the lid from it, addressing Ingenuus without looking up.

‘Good morning, Aulus. Anything to report?’

‘Nothing unusual, sir. Still two men sick and none on leave. The new recruits are settling in nicely and appear to have mastered the basics. Their horses are being put through their paces again this morning and this afternoon, I have decided to take them on an exercise up into the woods.’

Caesar nodded, apparently only half-listening as he slid the scroll from the case. ‘Good. Well now, would you look at this.’

Ingenuus leaned forward as the general rolled the scroll to face him. The officer took note of the wax seal and the imprint of the goddess upon it.

‘Fortuna Conservatrix? With an orb?’

‘The seal of the Falerii. Fronto, in fact.’

Without further ado, the general snapped the seal and unfurled the scroll. ‘Interesting.’

‘Sir?’

‘Fronto’s seal, but this writing is Priscus’. I have spent years reading his reports.’

‘Then it is news from Gaul, sir?’

Caesar’s eyes played back and forth across the scroll, his eyes hardening as he read, his lips drawing thin and tight. Ingenuus frowned. He knew that look. ‘Sir?’

‘It would appear that we cannot wait until Martius for the tubilustrum festival and the start of campaigning. The season this year has begun early.’

‘Sir?’

‘Priscus brings news of a new rising in Gaul. Perhaps the ‘great revolt’ he has been anticipating. It certainly sounds like it, for the Carnutes have put the Roman merchants and the garrison of Cenabum to the sword, severed all supply and communication lines to the north and have elected Vercingetorix to lead not just the Arverni, but some great army of all the Gauls.’

‘Then we must mobilise immediately, sir.’

‘Agreed. I will leave Hirtius to tie up my affairs in Aquileia and send out summonses to any officers on furlough. We will move swiftly, picking up Priscus and Fronto at Massilia. I wish to pry further into the matter before we march across Gaul.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘What is your opinion on our route?’

‘Fast horse from here with the guard changing mounts regularly to give all the steeds a rest. From Massilia it is a simple matter to move up the Rhodanus valley and rendezvous with the army at Agedincum.’

‘It is. Far too simple, in fact. If the Gaulish rebels have severed supply lines and communications then that means they are in command of at least part of that route, and I cannot believe that they have left it unguarded. To march straight up the Rhodanus, which is precisely where they will expect us to move, is to invite trouble. No. We must go another way.’

The general stood and turned to the huge map hanging on the wall, tapping his finger on Massilia by the sea, his eyes ranging up the valley beyond and then back and along the coast.

‘This is the way we shall go,’ he announced, tapping out a dotted route along the southern coast and finishing at an image of a castellated red blob.’

‘Narbo, sir? Isn’t that rather a strange way round?’

‘It is. But it has three benefits. Firstly, it is not the way any Gallic rebels will be expecting me to go. Secondly, there is a garrison in Narbonensis that we can mobilise and use against the Gauls. And thirdly, once we cross the mountain passes it will deliver us directly into the heartland of the Arverni, the tribe that seem to be at the heart of this revolt.’

Ingenuus tried not to let the surprise show on his face.

‘But general, we are too few to bring war to the heart of Gaul until we meet up with the legions. I have a good cavalry unit, but the Narbonensis garrison is small and even with them we will be walking into the lion’s jaws.’

Caesar nodded and strode over to the window, where he pushed aside the wooden shutters that had kept the room shady, allowing the bright sunlight to flood in.

‘We will have adequate forces.’

Ingenuus crossed to the window and looked outside. This time he could not prevent his surprised expression from becoming manifest. ‘Them, sir? But they’re new, untrained, raw and untested. They’re trainees, sir. They haven’t even been given a legion number or a standard yet.’

His eyes played across the ranks of new, young legionaries standing in ordered rows for their veteran officers to complete their morning inspection. The senate had passed a law over winter authorising a levy of new blood for the legions in the proconsul’s provinces, and almost two legions’ worth of men stood there now, well-equipped but with little more than two weeks’ training under their belts.

‘Untried they might be, but they are eager and well led by solid veterans of my old legions. They are equipped with the best arms and armour and — most important of all — they are here and available. The Gauls will expect me to travel up the Rhodanus with a small escort unit. They will not expect me to appear over the mountains from Narbonensis with two legions at my command. Imagine the chaos that will ensue within their carefully planned revolt at that surprise.’

Ingenuus simply nodded, though as his gaze took in the sheer youth and scrawniness of the recruits before him, chaos was about all that he could imagine coming out of this.

‘Good,’ Caesar smiled. ‘Then we are agreed. I will give the details to Hirtius while you have your unit fall in on the parade ground with the new recruits where I can address all the men at once. Speed has just become our watchword, so we march Marian style, with every man bearing his own kit. No wagons or supplies or artillery, and marching as fast as the new men can manage. They can recover their breath on the intermittent sea voyages. I wish to be in Tergeste watching the men board ship for Ariminium by nightfall. We can be in Massilia en masse in eight or nine days if all goes well.’

Ingenuus saluted, tearing his eyes from the new recruits back to the huge map on the wall, where they picked out the names of the known tribes north of Narbo. There seemed to him to be an awful lot of them between Roman territory and the Arverni, not to mention apparently a range of mountains.

He muttered a silent prayer to Minerva as he bowed his acquiescence to the proconsul.

Chapter 2

The Bituriges oppidum of Avaricon (Modern Bourges)

Vercingetorix stretched and scratched his chin thoughtfully, keen eyes peering out into the chilly, damp morning. ‘What is the word from the scouts?’

Vergasillaunus rubbed tired eyes, but his expression was full of alertness and energy as he dragged his gaze from the oppidum in front of them and across to his cousin and ruler.

‘It seems that we have them sealed in tight.’

‘With the exception of the riders.’

Vergasillaunus nodded and Critognatos, who stood with his usual glower, curled a sneering lip. ‘You were foolish to let those horsemen go.’

The two cousins turned their gaze on the third chieftain present. ‘Everything I do is for a reason, Critognatos,’ the Arverni king said calmly, his smooth voice given counterpoint by the crows that filled the trees above the camp and cawed out their displeasure at this intrusion into their world.

‘Your reasoning baffles me, Vercingetorix. Those riders were sent to seek aid for the Bituriges before we had them trapped. We could have had this place sealed up tighter than a Roman’s arse and the populace in a panic, but because you let them get past, the men of Avaricon simply sit smug and await the arrival of the Aedui to save them.’

Vergasillaunus grinned. ‘You think the Aedui will rush to their aid?’

‘Of course they will. And it’s been two days now. I’m surprised they’re not here already, trying to stick spears in us. The Bituriges owe their allegiance to the Aedui, and they’re all oathbound to Rome. We’ve a strong army here, but it won’t be when we get trapped between the walls of Avaricon and the Aedui rescue force and ground like meal in a grindstone.’

Vercingetorix peered across at the oppidum, rising from the mist that concealed unpleasant, sucking death. He and his sizeable force had encamped on a hill to the east of the Bituriges’ capital with a view across the intervening shallow valley. The Biturige oppidum was well positioned on a hill situated within the confluence of two rivers which spread out and meandered to turn much of the surrounding landscape into marshland that was effectively uncrossable by an army. Nature had given Avaricon superb defences, and the Bituriges had augmented them with powerful walls and towers surrounding the hill and the settlement upon it. It was said that the granaries of Avaricon were so full and rich that the city would live a year without a fresh harvest. The only true access for an attacking army was this one: from the hill where they now stood, down into the valley and back up the other side, where they would dash themselves to pieces on the heavy walls while the Bituriges dropped rocks on them. It was a siege that no commander would wish to undertake, and Vercingetorix had no more wish to throw his army on those walls than any other general.

And so the bulk of the Gallic army had settled here, on the damp slope, sending out forays to set up small camps and patrols in a circuit around the place and make sure no further defenders managed to sneak out between the swamps and marshes. The riders’ escape had been part of the plan, but now isolation and uncertainty were required among the Bituriges within those walls. They had to be primed ready for the surprise the Arverni leader had in store.

With the enduring patience he saved for his more outspoken and imprudent chieftains, Vercingetorix turned to Critognatos again and smiled reassuringly. ‘There is little chance of that happening, my friend.’ He was beginning to have concerns over the wisdom of putting such a potentially unstable man in command of one of the army’s component forces, but Critognatos was popular with the older warriors and there was no denying his bravery or skill in battle. If only he would think a little harder before speaking or acting. ‘We are not here for battle, however it may appear. Even if we were successful and with negligible losses, the attack would be futile. We need the Bituriges with us, not strewn across the hillside, festering in the cold air and awaiting the carrion feeders.’

‘And you do that by allowing them extra support from those Rome-loving arseholes the Aedui?’

Vergasillaunus glanced at his cousin and saw the leader of the army counting silently under his breath, trying to keep his irritation contained. Perhaps they should have kept Cavarinos here. The soft-spoken young chief seemed to have the knack of keeping his brother under better control, for all their constant low-level argument. Since he had been gone, Critognatos had become ever more vocal and difficult. Before his cousin could lose his temper, Vergasillaunus leaned closer.

‘Our task is to bring all the tribes to us before the spring. That includes the Aedui, and they are a difficult proposition, so we take a lesson from the Romans who are experts at this. We play tribes and kings off against each other in the game of power and politics. And if we have planned our moves right, just as Caesar uses tribes to subdue one another without a drop of Roman blood spilled, we will bring all these tribes to our side without the need to take a sword to any of them.’

Critognatos’ sneer jacked up a notch as he put a thumb to his nostril and blew out a wad of snot, bringing sharp looks of disapproval from his companions. ‘I still don’t see how trebling their numbers and trapping us against their walls will achieve that.’

Vergasillaunus opened his mouth to answer but Vercingetorix, finally losing his patience, stepped forward. ‘Just trust us instead of all this constant complaint and gainsaying. We have planned this entire campaign down to the last thread, and within the next few days the Bituriges will be ours without a blow delivered. Have you not even an inkling as to what is happening?’

‘We’re sitting here and waiting.’

‘I mean as to where your brother has gone, for instance?’

Critognatos shook his head, showing no sign of inquisitiveness at all — was the man that unimaginative? ‘Probably rutting with some boy in a field somewhere.’

‘Gah!’ Turning his back on the stocky chieftain from Nemossos, the commander of the army and soon to be King of all the tribes strode off away from the irritating noble, his cousin pacing along at his side.

‘I am starting to worry over timing, mind, cousin,’ Vergasillaunus muttered quietly, eying the vast encampment as they walked and noting the signs of tension and ennui here and there. ‘He was right that they have had long enough.’

Vercingetorix looked across at his second-in-command. ‘All proceeds as planned, I am sure.’

A crow above echoed his word with a croak.

‘I hope so. We pin much upon one traitor and one kinsman. And I had thought they would be here by now. Half this army or more will be thinking along the same lines as Critognatos. He may be a borderline lunatic and short on imagination, but he is a good yardstick with which to measure the mood of the army.’

‘The traitor will do as we commanded. And if by some miracle he does not, Cavarinos can be trusted to put things back on track. Our friend may have only half the battle-skill of his brother, but he received more than his share of the brains. However the traitor plans to achieve his goal, be sure Cavarinos will keep things right, and we have our part of the plan in place.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ The two men turned their gaze back upon Avaricon, seething in a sea of miasmic fug. ‘I want them on our side, cousin. I would pay a good gold torc just to see Caesar’s face if he has to take this city from us.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos tried to catch the eye of Litavicus, but the warrior studiously ignored him.

The Arverni chieftain had been among the Aedui for only two days before events caught up with them. He and Litavicus — a young Aeduan noble apparently in the pay of Vercingetorix — had been met a mile from the vast, sprawling oppidum of Bibracte by the traitor’s brother in law, who seemed hungry for news of the Gallic force gathered at Avaricon, yet more hungry for his share of the gold coins that Litavicus dropped into his hand.

The young men had brought Cavarinos into Bibracte, through the powerful walls and along streets that ran between seemingly endless buildings, and introduced him that night to half a dozen other like-minded Aedui, including one Convictolitanis, a man currently standing for magistrate and effective control of the entire tribe. When faced with allies of this magnitude and assured that they were far from alone, the scale of the task for which they had come to Bibracte seemed diminished a little, though Cavarinos would have liked to have known more of it in advance.

Then, the next morning, six exhausted riders had appeared at the great western gate. A party of weary and wild-eyed horsemen of the Bituriges tribe, they claimed to have ridden like the wind from the oppidum of Avaricon, their tribe’s capital, to seek aid from the Aedui. They were seemingly under siege by the army of Vercingetorix. Cavarinos had felt a nervous jolt at that news. It had begun already. In these circumstances, were he discovered to be of the Arverni himself, his peeled skin would be displayed to the Aedui within hours. And how much could he trust Litavicus and his companions? How much could anyone trust an already proven traitor-for-money?

That afternoon, Litavicus had snuck him into a position among heavy, ancient roof beams where he could secretly observe the meeting of the tribal council in a grand hall of timber and stone. He had watched anxiously as events unfolded, aware of the potential for disaster at every turn. The Bituriges had begged for support — a relief force from the Aedui, whose tribe were so much more numerous and powerful than their own. Cavarinos had begun running through arguments against it in his head, wondering how he would get Litavicus to put them forth, but he was saved the effort when one of the tame nobles lining his pockets with Arverni silver had addressed the council.

The man had narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he threw out his arms and reminded those present that the Bituriges were as close to the Arverni as they were to the Aedui. That being the case, and the oath to Rome being so readily forgotten among the tribes these days, how could the Aedui be sure this was not simply a ruse to drag a large Aeduan force off where it could be massacred by Vercingetorix and his rebels? Undoubtedly the new Arverni ‘king’ planned to weaken and break their main opposition, and this had all the hallmarks of a duplicitous Arverni plot. Cavarinos had felt himself exhale in relief. It was a masterful nudge, and had almost persuaded the gathered nobles to refuse their aid to the Bituriges. But then, surprisingly, the magistrate Convictolitanis — claiming the mandate of Rome — had shaken his head. ‘We must support our allies in the face of such threat,’ he had announced.

What the hell is he doing? Cavarinos had thought. We almost had the Bituriges cut off, until this new turn of argument. But as he listened a thought had dawned upon him, and everything had quickly fallen into place. Claiming such mandate, the nobleman could act on behalf of Rome without having to actually apprise the legions of anything that was happening. In another genius stroke, the magistrate had kept all these matters from reaching the ears of the Roman commanders. Was that worth the potential threat to Vercingetorix of an Aedui relief army? More than likely. After all, the Romans had to be kept in the dark no matter what happened.

‘We will take a large force of cavalry and infantry to aid the Bituriges,’ the magistrate had announced, and once the approving and affirmative buzz had died down, the council had argued briefly before assigning command of that force to the same young Litavicus who had guided Cavarinos to the oppidum a few days earlier.

And now here they were, a day and a half later, closing on the wide Liger River which drew a natural boundary between the territory of the two tribes as it wound north and west on its great journey to the cold, unforgiving sea. The half dozen Bituriges riders accompanied them, satisfied that their capital would now be saved by the Aedui. Cavarinos had hidden his serpentine Arverni arm-ring in his pack and appeared to all intents and purposes just one more horseman in a faceless crowd of Aedui warriors, hungry for blood. What would happen when this sizeable force reached the army at Avaricon, Cavarinos could hardly suspect.

The slightly frosted dew on the turf left a trail of hoof and boot prints a hundred paces wide as the column slowly but inexorably descended on their target. Cavarinos pinched the bridge of his nose and winced.

Vercingetorix had tasked him with supporting Litavicus in his plan, though the niceties of that plan had been basic and vague at best. Neither Vercingetorix nor Litavicus had imparted the details to him, barring the basic essentials, in the knowledge that this way, should he be discovered, he could not imperil the whole plot. But once Litavicus had left the meeting with the Arverni king, Cavarinos had also been given the quiet word to make sure that the young Aeduan did not switch sides once more and betray them all.

So the Aeduan force was riding on Avaricon. What to do now? Trust that the traitor had something up his sleeve, or try and find a way to stop the advance? He had pondered the choice time and again since they left Bibracte, but continued to go along with Litavicus based solely on the premise that if the man intended further betrayals, there would be no reason to preserve Cavarinos’ anonymity and he would have been revealed and dealt with brutally. The Arverni noble’s ongoing survival suggested that Litavicus was still with them.

‘The bridge,’ called one of the warriors at the van, his breath pluming impressively as he rode back to the main force, which moved by necessity at a fast walking pace, limited by the speed of their slowest units. As the watery, cold sun neared its unimpressive apex, the army reached the slope that led down to the bridge across the Liger.

Cavarinos blinked.

On the rise above the far bank stood a force at least the size of their own, waiting. Two thousand warriors massed in three groups, with standards and carnyx horns rising above their heads and glittering in the pale light, a thousand more cavalry spread out in small parties among them. They waited before the treeline, but there were no birds in those trees, and that suggested the woods were also full of men — archers, perhaps? Before Cavarinos could express his own surprise, shouts and roars arose from the men surrounding him and the Aedui standards were waving to halt the column.

‘The magistrate was right!’

‘Traitorous dogs!’

‘What now?’

Chaos was pulled to order by the shouts of Litavicus and calls blasted through bronze horns. The six Bituriges among them were hustled back to the commander and, confused, Cavarinos edged his own mount back through the press to be within earshot.

‘Your purpose becomes clear!’ snarled Litavicus at the Bituriges riders before him. Cavarinos had to be impressed at the disgust and disdain prevalent in the man’s anger. It had clearly all been planned, so the young Aeduan was apparently a consummate actor.

‘I do not understand,’ blabbered one of the half dozen Bituriges, his head snapping back and forth between the angry face of the Aeduan commander and the sizeable force gathered across the river.

‘Who are they?’ hissed Litavicus, jabbing an angry finger at the opposing army.

‘They must… must be Arverni,’ another of the six stuttered in panicked confusion.

‘Really? Squint against the light and tell me what standards you see among them.’

A suspicion settled on Cavarinos and he did just that, having to fight to keep a slow smile from spreading across his face. Barely visible, they were, but if you squinted and strained, you could just make them out.

‘Horses,’ admitted the deflated Biturige rider.

‘Yes. Braid-maned horses. Several of them. And I think you know what the braid-maned horse means?’

Yes, Cavarinos thought, his mind working fast to put this puzzle together, Bituriges. They were the horse-standards of the Bituriges!

‘But I do not understand,’ spluttered the panicked rider. ‘How did they leave the oppidum? The Arverni must have left…fled the area…’

Cavarinos was fighting to keep that smile contained. He had seen unbraided horses on other standards… those of Vercingetorix’s staunch allies, the Carnutes, for example. The Carnutes, who were so deeply involved that they had loosed the first arrow of the war. Whose lands were close by, to the north, a stone’s throw from Avaricon. The Carnutes who’d had no task as yet but to join the main force at Avaricon. So long as the Aedui and the six panicked Bituriges did not make that same connection… time to nudge them further into suspicion of treachery.

He coughed to disguise the slight bark of laughter that had escaped despite all his efforts. ‘No,’ he announced, and for the first time Litavicus looked over at him. Cavarinos pointed at the army across the river. ‘As well as the many boars and the few braided horses, in the two larger groups, see the winged serpent of the Arverni among the third. Betrayal!’ he announced, echoing the thoughts rushing through the assembled force. ‘They seek to entrap us and thus weaken our tribe.’

Without warning, three of the Bituriges kicked their horses into action, fleeing the scene. Only two of them made it past the vanguard’s thrusting weapons, the third receiving a bronze spear point through the spine for his troubles, the shaft waving for a moment before the man fell from his steed and nearby Aeduan warriors rushed over to hack the unfortunate to pieces. From the angle at which he rode, it appeared that one of those pair who had made it was now living on time borrowed from the halls of the dead, clutching his side as a steady spray of crimson droplets left a trail across the green-white grass.

Before Cavarinos could say anything more, in anger, the assembled Aedui had slain the remaining three Bituriges among them, hacking at their necks with swords and impaling their torsos on long spears. One of the more rabid Aeduan riders made to follow the fleeing pair, his already-blooded sword brandished, but Litavicus called them back.

‘Leave them to their fate,’ he ordered. ‘This fight is not for us. Let the treacherous Bituriges wallow under the rule of the Arverni. Back to Bibracte!’ He managed to catch Cavarinos’ eye for a heartbeat as he turned, and there was a barely-perceptible nod. The job was done.

The force slowly turned, putting its back to the mysterious force of Arverni and Bituriges and making for the great oppidum of Bibracte once more. Cavarinos gave the army across the river a last brief glance, picturing them removing the wooden braids they had used to turn Carnute standards into Biturige ones. He wished he could see the trapped tribes folk in Avaricon when those two riders made it back to tell them that the Aedui were not coming and that they were on their own. The leaders’ resolve to defy Vercingetorix would crumble within the hour!

The Arverni noble kicked his horse on with the rest of the Aedui horsemen, allowing himself to drop towards the rear of the force. He would have to wait until dark to slip away from the retreating Aedui and return to the army of his kin. He would not have a chance to speak to Litavicus, but the young warrior had played his part and played it well, and Cavarinos had no doubt that they would meet again soon enough.

* * * * *

Cavarinos slung his heavy saddle bag to the damp turf outside Vercingetorix’ tent, a proud leather edifice bearing the name of some important Roman, which had been confiscated along with most of the interior furnishings from a cart in a Roman convoy near Vesontio early in the year. He knew his brother hated the thing, but the Romans made practical, durable kit, whatever else you thought of them, and the king of the Arverni couldn’t have hoped for a better campaigning tent.

The two men standing nearby had merely nodded to him as he arrived and he pushed his way inside without challenge. Vercingetorix sat on a plump, dark red cushion that was made from some smooth material Cavarinos had heard came all the way from the lands of the Seres, far over the mountains to the east of Greece. Nearby, Critognatos sat on a smooth log, showing disdain for such Roman luxuries. Vergasillaunus lounged in a wooden chair. None of the others were present, which was a great relief to Cavarinos, given the aches in his bones and the weary fug in his head following a ride at breakneck pace from the fleeing Aeduan force a few hours earlier. His horse would take a while to recover, and Cavarinos could do with a day or two’s sleep himself.

‘The hero returns,’ grinned Vergasillaunus. ‘How did you like our surprise?’

Cavarinos laughed a tired laugh and with a respectful nod at the king, sunk into the comfiest chair he could see, a Roman one lined with thin velvet cushions.

‘It surprised me, but you should have seen the look on the rest of the faces.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘I have to say that I was half-convinced that Litavicus was playing us false until the last moment. But he held it together well. The Aedui will be convinced that their allies have deserted them and come over to us.’

‘Which,’ Vergasillaunus grinned, ‘is precisely what will now happen, of course.’

‘Neatly done. And, of course, the Aedui will begin to think on the value of their oath to Rome in the knowledge that Caesar and his army are separated and their supply and communication lines ruined, while our army grows ever stronger. They might not be ready to commit yet, mind, even with traitors working for us from within.’

Vergasillaunus nodded. ‘But we must have them. When we have the Aedui, a dozen other wavering tribes will throw in their lot with us.’

The Arverni king cracked his knuckles, drawing silence from the tent. ‘We will stay here at Avaricon until all is settled to our satisfaction. The survivors of your little foray made their way back into the oppidum an hour or two before you returned and this night the whole tribe will panic, debate, argue and hide their valuables. Then, in the morning, I expect to see their deputation come forth with the desire to join us. I anticipate a week or more, though, before we can be certain that things are correct here, and in that time I will draw a sizeable force from them to bolster our army. Then, in due course, we will move on west, against the Boii oppidum of Gorgobina. The Boii also live within Aedui protection and their fall to us will help weaken the Aedui’s resolve. I see this as the last series of moves before we are ready to face the legions. Gorgobina will be flattened and the Boii annihilated. The Aedui will realise they are alone. They will send to the Romans for aid, but their commander in the field is careful and prudent. He will not commit to them without his general’s consent, for he will fear another winter that sees the loss of entire legions. The Aedui will be truly isolated, and our traitors will turn them to us. Then, with the aid of the reticent tribes of the northwest, we will become a vast horde, easily capable of swatting the ten legions in the north. All is proceeding as expected, my friends. But we must be cunning and political and not deviate from the plan.’

Cavarinos nodded his understanding, though there was an unhappy rumble from his brother. Critognatos stirred and ran his fingers through his beard, ripping out the tangles in the matted hair. ‘So you trick our neighbours into distrusting one another, and now you will destroy a small tribe just to shake the resolve of a larger one. Why bother fighting the Romans at all, when we can be just like them?’

He spat on the floor, and Cavarinos noted the slight narrowing of their king’s eyes at such behaviour in his tent.

‘I do not expect you to make war on other tribes, Critognatos,’ the king said in icy tones. ‘You have made your opinions abundantly clear. I have another task for you. The Carnutes have sent a reasonable force south to join us — enough to fool and worry the Aedui, but not half as many as I was expecting. And the Senones as yet send no one, despite their promises. You are concerned that we risk our forces when we should be increasing them? Then I task you with riding north alongside a few good men to visit the tribes and remind them of their loyalties. Draw from them more promises of warriors and make sure those promises are held to and that the reinforcements are sent to join us here.’

Critognatos’ face showed a modicum of disappointment that he was still not being sent to kill Romans, but the knowledge that he would not now be required to fight other tribes, and the faint tang of pride in the importance of the task assigned to him got the better of him, and he nodded with a rare smile. ‘To the Carnutes and the Senones to begin with, then?’

‘And then the Cenomani, the Meldi and the Parisi. And follow up on anything you might come across on other local tribes on your journey. Do not get too close to the Roman forces up there, though. Caesar’s pet war-dog Labienus is in that region, and he is a dangerous man. He would not leap to the aid of the Aedui, but he will not countenance rebels stirring up the local tribes. Use your initiative.’

Cavarinos fought the urge to roll his eyes at the tying of the word ‘initiative’ with his brother, but as Critognatos nodded he saw a look pass between the commanding cousins. Just for a moment he wondered whether the pair might even have considered this duty in the north solely to rid themselves of the difficult chieftain for a time.

‘And you, Cavarinos,’ Vergasillaunus said, still with that twinkling smile.

‘Me?’

‘I am afraid,’ Vercingetorix sighed, ‘you will have little time to rest. Take tonight to recover from your time among the Aedui, for tomorrow you ride north with your brother.’

A cold stone of disappointment settled in Cavarinos’ stomach. ‘But…’

‘No.’ Vercingetorix’s face took on the look that Cavarinos knew brooked no argument, so he fell silent. ‘I have another task for you,’ the king continued. ‘A young uidluias seer with a great reputation for lore and for the sight joined us along with the Carnutes. She tells me that the ongoing depredations of the Romans has awoken the ire of the great god Ogmios and that the lord of words and corpses has bent his strength and will to a new curse with them in mind.’

Cavarinos had to fight once more to hold in his contempt. Ogmios, the Lord of Words. Unlike the common curse tablets, etched by the desperate in the hope of Divine interference and cast into holy springs, his curse tablets came written by the god’s hand, straight from the sky, it was said, and only during the worst storms, amid the crash of thunder and the flare of lightning. They were rarer than a bird flying backwards. Kings and chieftains had fought wars over the ownership of one of the insipid artefacts. Priceless, they were. And as far as Cavarinos was concerned, prime superstitious bullshit.

‘You would send me to the shepherds of the ways to collect a curse? It is wasted effort. Send me instead to procure weapons, horses and men, for it is they who will help us beat Rome. Not the trickery and tomfoolery of druids.’

Vercingetorix’s face still held that fixed expression, defying him to push his luck. But Cavarinos’ opinion of druids and curses and such drivel was well-known among his peers. That the king would even consider sending him bowing and scraping to the druids was little short of an insult.

‘I detest their kind and their attempts to control all the tribes and chieftains of the land. And they know it, too. There is every chance that they will refuse me upon sight. Send me to rouse the tribes and send Critognatos to fawn to the shepherds. He believes in them.’

Vercingetorix had the grace to look faintly apologetic. ‘In truth, my friend, I know all these things, and it was in neither my mind nor my heart to send you.’

‘Then why order it?’

‘Because the uidluias who told me of the curse also told me that only you can find it and wield it. Curious, the ways of gods, are they not?’

Cavarinos opened his mouth to argue, but instead looked at the three faces arrayed before him. Neither of the leaders would ever submit to the power of the druids, but both still respected their power and held them in esteem. And as for Critognatos: well, Cavarinos would find no help there. The uidluias had spoken the will of gods, and her voice carried a thousand times the weight of his to their ears. Argument was futile. He sighed. ‘Where do I start?’

‘The greatest nemeton and gathering of the shepherds is in Carnute lands, and there Ogmios is strong. That would seem the place to begin.’

* * * * *

‘We should have come through the mountains,’ grunted the heavy-set Cadurci warrior with the grisly necklace. Lucterius, his chief and superior in every manner barring foulness of appearance, shook his head, glancing distastefully at the necklace, formed of four dozen Roman teeth, each one selected and removed while its owner was still conscious, and threaded onto the cord with a hole drilled through the enamel. It might be common practice for the warriors to gather gruesome mementos, even down to the preserved Roman heads that he knew his cousin kept in his house, but the clatter and rattle of these particular souvenirs always set Lucterius’ own teeth on edge.

‘The mountains are all-but impassable at this time of year, and you know that. There is every chance we would have to dig our way through snow as deep as two men. This route was longer, but trust me, it was still quicker.’

The initial force of two thousand Cadurci warriors, augmented by men drawn from the Petrocorii, the Nitiobroges and the Volcae, now numbered in excess of six thousand, and that number would rise by at least another two thousand by nightfall, as the Ruteni had pledged horsemen, warriors and many of their infamous and deadly archers to the cause.

Lucterius looked along the narrow grassy valley ahead, which angled to the southeast and would deliver them into the lands of Roman Narbonensis in a matter of days. Above them, along the hillsides, thick, tangled forests kept their advance secret from potential onlookers, and the scouts ahead had as yet found no sign of Roman outposts.

The army had taken a circuitous route, curving out towards Aquitania and the western ocean before arcing back east and south, making the most of the gorges, narrow defiles and oft-unknown forest paths of the region. There was no chance, of course, that the Roman province knew they were coming, but Lucterius was nothing if not careful, and their route had taken them by secretive ways such that they would appear on the edge of Roman territory unnoticed and unexpected.

And without having to dig their way through a snowy pass…

He smiled to himself at what he imagined at the end of their journey: the freeing of the people. Narbonensis would fall, ripped from the Romans’ grasp and released from their endless taxes and uniformity and laws. And they would once again become a free land of Volcae, Tectosages, Arecomici and all the other tribes who had languished under Roman rule for so long. For it was no good Vercingetorix and his far-seeing Arverni raising all the tribes to fight back the Romans without freeing their captive brothers in the south after a century of domination.

He glanced back to see his force pouring through the valley behind him, skirting the low mound of some Ruteni town or other, where the men cheered this show of strength in the face of Roman rule, and the women leaned over the walls and, despite the bone-freezing chill, bared their breasts at the passing warriors, who laughed and called back in delight.

He could only imagine the different scene if they had come the direct route across the mountain passes. Instead of the inviting pink breasts of the local women, his men would be digging a path through packed snow and spending half the time burying their own dead and snapping off hardened blue-black toes.

No. He had suggested this route to Vercingetorix, and the Arverni king had been wholeheartedly in agreement. In less than a week they would be in Narbonensis and bringing fear, fire and the sword to all who held to Roman rule.

His own tribe were not so far north of here, to the south of the Arverni, and it had been Lucterius who had given the king the initial estimates of the garrison and approximations of the general strength of Narbonensis. But recent conversations with the few Volcae who still lived outside the borders of the republic and with the free Ruteni had supported his estimates.

The standing garrison of Narbo would number no more than a thousand. There were other Roman units scattered about the province, particularly to the west, furthest from Rome, but between them all not more than a thousand. That meant a rough figure of two thousand in the whole province. A quarter of the number that Lucterius brought south. And they were not battle-hardened veteran legionaries like Caesar’s troops, but slovenly, fat and untried garrison troops who had faced no threat in living memory.

Moreover, there was almost no chance of the entire force being brought together with less than a week’s notice, scattered as they were across the breadth of the province. And there was no more threat from the Roman forces down in the Iberian lands than there was from those in Caesar’s province on the far side of the Alpes.

Narbonensis was in his sight and would fall swiftly. He had already planned the next move, once they had thundered south and taken Narbo. All ships impounded, and the cavalry would split into smaller groups, racing east and west to secure all the main routes from the province while the rest would occupy Narbo and move on in groups to the other cities and ports, securing them as they went. Word of the province’s fall would have to be kept from Caesar’s ears for as long as possible. Then, and only then, would Vercingetorix be free to wipe out their presence in the north.

And the once-subjugated tribes would help bolster the rebel forces when they realised that they were free and the continuation of that freedom depended upon their willingness to fight for it. Narbonensis’ Roman garrison may be weak, but its defence by the native tribes would be a much different matter. Rome had been expanding for generations. This spring would signal the start of its reversal.

Briefly, he wondered whether the Greek council of Massilia could be persuaded from their alliance with Rome and into a collective allegiance with the tribes. All things were possible if you were bargaining from a strong enough position. Narbo first. Then the coast and the borders, and then the great population centres: Tolosa, Arelate and Massilia.

He smiled. The province was almost within his grasp now.

* * * * *

Fronto shifted his arm slightly to distribute the weight more comfortably and reached round, patting young Lucius on the back and then running his hand round in small circling motions.

‘This is not really seemly for a soldier,’ he said, almost under his breath.

Lucilia gave him an arch look and he lowered his eyes under that flinty gaze. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘You’re doing well. Lucius is almost settled. Soon he will be fast asleep. At least I gave you him and not his brother. I wonder if Marcus is so stubborn and difficult because I gave him your name?’

Fronto sighed and continued to circle his hand.

‘I’m hungry.’

His wife opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of slapping feet across marble drew their attention to the doorway that led into the Atrium. Slapping bare feet meant one of Fronto’s singulares bodyguards. Everyone else in the villa complex had soft leather shoes for household time, but the soldiers under Fronto’s command had refused the soft boots in favour of their nail-soled military wear, so in response Lucilia had denied them access to the house with those boots on.

Sure enough, Palmatus appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat on his approach to warn them, as if that were necessary. Fronto smiled as he looked down. Palmatus’ feet, hardened like old oak by decades of marching, rested carefully on the mosaic of branches and grapes. The former legionary had never exhibited strong signs of a superstitious nature, yet Fronto had seen him perform an odd skip in his step so as not to tread on the face of a god as he passed through a room. In fact, Fronto was thinking of having the room’s floor re-laid to make it more challenging and humorous for the commander of his guard.

‘Fronto?’

Palmatus winced as the new parents in the room beyond motioned for him to lower his voice, gesturing to the almost-sleeping twins.

‘Bad night,’ Fronto whispered.

‘I know. We heard. Not so much the boys shouting, but more your own complaining as you kept wandering round the villa trying to get them back to sleep.’

‘Serves you right for setting guards. I told you you didn’t need them here.’

‘What’s the use of a bodyguard that don’t actually guard you?’ Palmatus shook his head as if to wrench himself from the conversation. ‘Stop distracting me,’ he said, and realised his voice had risen again, so dropped it low. ‘You need to come out front and see this.’

Fronto frowned and glanced at Lucilia, who was gently lowering young Marcus into the blankets. She reached out to take Lucius from him. With Fronto she would argue the point, but she knew Palmatus well enough to know that such interruptions were never trivial. Fronto passed his son over to her.

‘What is it?’ he hissed as the pair left and crossed the atrium, Palmatus performing his usual dance routine to avoid the faces.

‘As I said: you need to see it.’

The two men strode through the atrium, nodding their respect to the altar of the lares and penates and to the small shrine of Janus who blessed their comings and goings. Despite the chill in the air, the villa’s main door remained open, as Lucilia vaunted the daily airing of the whole place, pronouncing it good for the health of the children, even though it made Fronto’s knee ache unbearably and made his sleep pattern patchy at best.

The villa’s owner stopped on the doorstep, his eyes rising across the courtyard and the two neat lawns enclosed by the waist-high perimeter wall. The open grassland beyond was being systematically churned to mud by the passage of nailed boots. ‘What in the name of Fortuna?’

‘More Mars, I’d say,’ Palmatus added. The pair watched as neatly turned-out legionaries stomped past the gate in the uncomfortable rhythm of the quick march. Whoever they were and wherever they were going, they seemed to be in a hurry.

‘The council of Massilia aren’t going to like this. They disapprove of whole legions entering their boundaries without prior consent. They get touchy when a there’s more than a dozen of us together, all armoured.’

Palmatus nodded, remembering the arguments they had had with the officials of the city in getting permission for Fronto’s singulares to enter the city with him armed and in force. Masgava and Aurelius traipsed over to join them from the building’s corner. ‘Notice something unusual about them yet, sir?’ Aurelius nudged.

‘They’re clean. That’s pretty damned odd for a start!’

‘No, sir. No insignia, sir. Can’t be a legion without insignia.’

Fronto frowned, but the singulares soldier was quite right. As he watched century after century of men go past there was not a hint of a standard or vexillum flag among them. ‘No standards? Then who are they?’

‘Dunno, sir,’ Aurelius replied. ‘But they had no eagle in the van either.’

Fronto pursed his lips. ‘Masgava? Run along to the barracks and have the men fall in, well turned-out and so fast they leave blurred lines in the air.’

Without questioning, the big Numidian ran off around the corner for the bunkhouse the singulares shared, Aurelius at his heel.

‘Why?’ Palmatus asked.

‘Caesar.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Who else would be marching through Massilia in the direction of Gaul with a legion so new they don’t even have a name or number?’ He glanced at Palmatus. The man was not armed or armoured, but he wore a neat, clean tunic and his military belt, and was already slipping on his nailed boots that had been waiting outside the door. He was neat enough to pass muster, especially since he had still not taken the army’s oath, serving in a non-standard unit outside the ranks of the legions.

Sure enough, as Fronto listened, he could hear the drumming of hooves as a small party of horsemen came trotting along the line of men, the gold-on-crimson Taurus flag of Caesar wavering in the cold wind above them.

‘Looks like we’ll be heading north early this year,’ Fronto hissed.

‘You knew he’d come quickly,’ Priscus replied, stepping out of the villa and lacing his boots hurriedly.

‘Shit. Galronus is still down in Campania. We’re going to have to go without him!’

Priscus gave him a sly grin. ‘I’ve met your sister, Fronto. Galronus has got plenty of his own battles in store without having to return to Gaul.’

The three men stood before the villa’s door as the small party of cavalry reached the gate and slowed, three riders dropping from their saddles, stretching in the manner of men who had been ahorse too long for comfort. Caesar looked bright and well, and his face, while it held no smile, did not appear perturbed as Fronto had expected. Aulus Ingenuus — the general’s praetorian commander — walked alongside easily, his hand resting calmly on the pommel of his gladius. The man at the other side brought a smile to Fronto’s face. He had not seen Brutus for some time, and the young officer’s presence brightened any occasion.

‘General,’ Fronto bowed his head, a gesture echoed by the men at his sides.

Caesar nodded in return as Ingenuus’ ever-watchful eyes inspected every corner of the building and Brutus smiled warmly. ‘Marcus. Gnaeus.’ His eyes picked out Palmatus and he simply nodded, unable to recall the man’s name. ‘Apologies for the unannounced visit, but we travelled as fast as any message might have done.’

‘And with a new legion?’

The general chuckled. ‘The bones and tendons of a legion, but without the muscle and skin as yet. They are far from ready, but are fully equipped and have had the introduction of basic training. They move and look like a legion, and they are still enthusiastic.’

Priscus shrugged. ‘They can be trained when we reach Agedincum and they combine with the rest of the legions. I presume we are to pack, general?’

Caesar smiled wearily. ‘Yes, but not this day. The recruits will encamp upon the heath above you for the night. We must away before the day wears on tomorrow, but I think everyone needs one night’s rest and it would be remiss of me to pass through without paying my respects to your charming wife and her father. And meeting your boys, of course. I bring gifts for them both.’

Fronto frowned. ‘How did you know…?’

‘I hear everything, Marcus. You know that.’ He looked past Fronto at Priscus, standing in the doorway. ‘I have decided to forego the peril of marching up the Rhodanus and into inevitable Gaulish traps, Prefect. We are bound instead for Narbo and the mountain passes into Arverni lands. I gather from your missive that you took that route in your escape, so perhaps you can tell me a little of what we face?’

As the general swept past them into the villa, uninvited and falling in side by side with Priscus, Fronto watched them, shaking his head. Every time Caesar appeared upon the scene, the play ran off-course from its text and all bets were off. He sighed.

‘Have you missed us, Fronto?’ Brutus chuckled.

Chapter 3

Valley 60 miles northwest of Narbo. Roman territory.

Lucterius glanced back over his shoulder. His small band of a dozen warriors were barely discernible, scrambling through the brush and trying not to make noise despite the frosty brittleness of the world, which waited impatiently for spring to return, bringing life and warmth. The army itself was not visible from here, safely secured around the spur of land up the valley. They had widely skirted the great metropolis the Romans called Tolosa days ago, taking care not to alert any Roman authorities to their presence.

It had been an interminable journey, and he knew that the army and the nobles who commanded it were restless, wishing nothing more than to be at the gates of Narbo putting Roman patricians to the sword. And even Lucterius, who was careful and knew the need for such a circuitous route, was grateful for a small chance at action.

The army had zigged and zagged like the trail of a snake through the lands of tribes who had as much cause to support the Romans as his own rebels, carefully seeking out those who could be trusted, turning peoples to their cause and increasing the size of his army. For the past three days they had edged southeast along the fringe of Roman territory, staying out of sight of the larger population centres, just in case.

And now, perhaps an hour ago, they had passed that invisible, yet oh-so-crucial line that the Romans had drawn across the world to say ‘this is ours’ and located the first of the Roman watch posts. The helpful Ruteni had described the Roman border well. A series of watchtowers within sight of each other, each built on a high place along ridges or river banks as nature dictated.

For three days, Lucterius had put off the move, despite the complaints of his nobles; for he knew that crossing the border with any sizeable force would set off the signal fires that would warn the entire province of danger. And then, this morning, blessed Sucellos had sent up a chill mist from the low peaks of the region, rising like perspiration from the sodden trees that covered the uplands. And Lucterius had known that the time had come. The army could approach the Roman border unnoticed and a small force could take out a signal station without being spotted by its neighbours. And if it all took place quickly enough, the army could be among the mountain passes and in the province unseen before anything happened.

Which would be several days yet. The Ruteni had confirmed that the Roman guards spent a week at the watchtower before they returned to their garrison, rotated with other soldiers. By the time the destruction of the signal tower was discovered, the army of Lucterius of the Cadurci would be in the streets of Narbo and the warning would be fruitless.

A dozen men. That was all he had taken. Given that the Ruteni said the garrison of one of these signal stations was an eight-man unit it should be plenty to silence the place without too much trouble, especially with surprise on their side, and he had chosen to deal with the place himself partially to display his willingness to be part of the army as well as its commander, but mostly to relieve the tension and ennui that had come with the waiting.

Focusing his attention on the task at hand, Lucterius paused as he reached the high, lichen-pasted wall of a chambered tomb, still undisturbed and with shrubbery growing up the front. Peering around the edge as he waved his men to stop, he examined his target.

The station was much like any other Roman military structure he had seen. They were so damned predictable! A stockade of sharpened stakes surrounded a small dome-shape in the land which rose above the tree line to give the occupants a clear view. It would have a gate in it, probably barred and tied. Inside was a low timber building, the roof of which was just visible above the stockade — the barracks of the garrison, of course. And a very basic timber-frame tower with a platform. Lucterius could see no sign of a beacon, but then such a signal would probably burn down the tower. He’d not thought to enquire of the Ruteni what system of signalling they used. He had assumed flame. Never mind… whatever system it was, they would not get to use it.

There was no sign of the usual ditches outside the stockade, the rocky hillside rendering such defences both unnecessary and impossible. He could vaguely hear the sounds of a horse within, which would likely serve to ride for the city should need arise — that would need to be taken out straight away, just in case. And atop the tower, leaning on his curved body shield, lounged a watchman. His gaze seemed fixed on the horizon far from the tower, unaware of the true proximity of danger.

Lucterius turned and made motions to his men. Two of them were Ruteni archers — the best he had, according to their chief, and at his signal, they took up position at the far side of the stone tomb. Lucterius and his remaining ten crouched low to best use the scrub for cover and began to work their way up to the walls, the leader praying to his gods that the watchman remained oblivious.

In a score of heartbeats he was closing on the stockade. All seemed to be peace. Not a single voice echoed from within, just the snorting and huffing of the horse. It was so quiet that when they stopped and held their breath that he could hear the sound of the man atop the platform scratching himself. Another set of hand signals, and his favoured warrior nodded, drawing a wicked-sharp sickle from his belt. With three deep, steadying breaths, Lucterius turned and gave a wave back at the chambered tomb.

An arrow sped from the shadows below the tomb and thudded into the Roman watchman’s face. It had flown true and deadly, killing the man and silencing him instantly in the very act. The only noise that arose from the attack was the thump of the body hitting the wooden platform and the faint clunk of the shield falling on top of it.

As soon as Lucterius saw the body vanish, he started to run around the stockade, his warriors with him. The other seven men of the garrison would hear the attack now and rush to defend the gate while sending another man or two up the ladder. But the two archers by the dolmen had proved their skill, and Lucterius didn’t fancy the chances of a Roman reaching the tower platform alive, let alone managing to get off a warning.

And they were at the gate suddenly, rounding the stockade in moments. Lucterius was thrilled through with joy and surprise in equal quantities to discover the gate wide open and inviting. His gaze took in the surrounding area and spotted the Roman, who had been standing near the trees a few paces away, urinating happily. Now he was turning, his privates still bared, desperately trying to draw the blade at his belt, his shield absent, presumably still inside.

Lucterius gestured to more of his men and two warriors peeled off from the group, mobbing the unfortunate Roman and dispatching him with twin thrusts to neck and groin before the tip of his sword had even left his scabbard. The man’s scream was cut off instantly as the steel cut through windpipe and voice box before grating on spine.

Ignoring the man’s demise, Lucterius hurtled through the inviting gate, his remaining eight men at his heel. Cunorix, his best warrior and chosen companion, was already making for the horse, sickle out to the side ready for the blow. The Cadurci leader loved horses, and the necessary death of the Roman beast weighed upon him, so he turned from the scene and made for the barracks, the only evidence of the savage act the sudden curtailing of the snorting and a brief thud and rumble as the animal thrashed.

And then, a moment later, Lucterius was in through the barrack door, one man at his heel while the others secured the perimeter and checked for more men outside the stockade.

His surprise only deepened as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior.

Eight beds in the form of four twin bunks filled the far end, all of which were bare and empty. The near end was some kind of communal kitchen, mess hall, living space and storeroom.

And one man — the only occupant — had managed to raise his shield and draw his sword. His head was bare, his helmet still hanging from his bedpost by the chin ties. The man’s expression was one of savage defiance and haughtiness — typical of the smug Romans.

Lucterius was on him in moments. His long sword, heavy and strong, came over in a wide sweep. To his credit, the Roman raised his shield well, but there was little he could do against the unstoppable weight of the blade. The Gallic sword slammed down into the shield, shredding the fine bronze edging into twisted strips and smashing through the layered wood and leather before sticking at the bulbous boss.

The shield was useless, though the Roman was quicker and smarter than Lucterius had given him credit for, using his grip on the heavy encumbrance to help him stab forward with his own sword. The Cadurci chief would forever thank his gods and count himself a lucky man that his own momentum carried him automatically aside, and the Roman blade scored along the side of his ribcage, tearing links from his mail shirt but leaving him otherwise unscathed.

With a roar of anger, the Roman discarded his useless shield, and Lucterius felt his trapped sword ripped from his hand by the action. For a moment, he realised that he was actually in real danger. The Roman was quick and decisive, and that wicked gladius was already back and coming in for another blow.

As the chief tried urgently to recoil from the attack, the Roman’s face suddenly exploded in a welter of blood, teeth and brains. Lucterius stared wide-eyed as the mangled soldier toppled backwards in a cloud of his own brain matter, falling awkwardly as the tip of the Roman spear that had passed through his head slammed into the ground.

The chieftain continued to stare, heaving in breaths, and finally turned to see one of his men in the doorway, his arm still raised from the throw.

As he began to recover with an exhale, Lucterius nodded his thanks.

‘What of the compound?’

‘Nothing. One horse. Nothing else.’

Lucterius frowned, shaking his head. ‘Three men? It cannot be.’ His gaze took in the barracks, and what he saw confirmed the truth of it. Eight beds — five unslept in and bare, three with rucked blankets. Only three marching poles in the corner. Just three men. All dead with no signal sent.

‘That’s it, then. The crossing is ours. And the mist will still fill the land for an hour or more. Send word to the army to begin moving into the valley. No more dallying now. We move straight on Narbo, and we’ll be at its gates before you can blink.’

The men cheered as they went over the bodies and kit of the Romans, searching for valuables or salvageable equipment. As Cunorix, his second, approached, drenched in the blood of the horse, Lucterius pursed his lips, a haunted look to his eyes.

‘What’s the matter?’

Lucterius turned his worried look on his companion. ‘It was so easy. And now the way is clear and Narbo lies waiting for us. But where were the others, Cunorix? Three men, not eight. And the other five have been here recently, for their pots sit in the corner unwashed. I wish we had taken one alive to interrogate. I do not like such surprises.’

‘Perhaps it was a gift from the gods?’

Lucterius nodded, though with little enthusiasm. ‘I hope you’re right, Cunorix, but I am starting to have a bad feeling about this.’

* * * * *

Lucius Aufridius Aprilis swallowed nervously. He held the military rank of tribune, though it had been a good four years since he had last donned the armour and these past few days of squeezing his well-fed bulk back into it had been extremely uncomfortable. He’d enjoyed life in the province, commanding the extremely dispersed garrison — which was a task that almost ran itself — while living the good life in the well-appointed city of Narbo and keeping an eye on a number of private investments in shipping and mercantile endeavours and other, less legal sources of extra revenue.

But three days ago, his world had turned upside down as a force of legionaries some seven or eight thousand strong, supported by a sizeable cavalry unit, had arrived, a small knot of noblemen and officers carrying a banner that had made Aprilis’ blood run cold… Gaius Julius Caesar!

By the time the general had dismounted at the forum’s elegant basilica, Aprilis had managed to find his clean toga, brush his hair, dress well, perfume and drag together an honour guard of six of the better turned out men. The general had hardly looked at him as he had stammered out a welcome and announced a huge banquet that he would have prepared in the Proconsul’s honour. He had been rattling off how much of an honour it all was when another of the officers, a hard-looking man of seemingly advanced age for his position, had spoken quietly to Caesar and the general had brushed aside Aprilis’ words.

‘No time for such matters, tribune. Send out messengers to every post your garrison occupies. I want a skeleton force left everywhere. All other men are to bring their full kit as fast as they can and muster on the plain across the river. I want the vast bulk of your command in position within three days, for in four I will be taking them with me.’

And now, three days later, Aprilis was starting to sweat in panic. He had immediately passed the task onto his subordinate, Marcus Aristius, who was always so damned busy and seemed to be far too stiff and military in his manner for such a quiet and peaceful post. To Aristius’ credit, despite the near impossibility of Caesar’s demands, the young, overly-formal prefect had managed to pull in every free man within three-day’s fast ride of Narbo, with all other available troops en route. He would owe Aristius for this, since the man’s efficiency reflected well on the garrison’s commander, and Aprilis had his eyes as always on higher office.

Taking as deep a breath as he could manage trapped under the restrictive cuirass that threatened to break a few ribs with each influx of air, Aprilis presented himself at the door of his own office. The dangerous-looking cavalry officer with the missing fingers at the doorway looked him up and down, noted the absence of blades at his belt, and nodded.

As Aprilis stepped into the room, he was surprised to see a map of Gaul hanging from his wall and piles of tablets and scrolls upon his desk, two officers — the older, mean looking one with the expensive sword at his side, and a young man he had heard might be the noble Brutus — rifling through them. Caesar stood looking at the map, scratching his chin.

‘What of the Ruteni?’

The older officer shrugged. ‘Split down the middle. Half of them have been living in the province for two generations, pay their taxes and live well. The other half are beyond the border, but I suspect harbour the desire for what their kin have. At least, that’s what Aristius seemed to infer.’

Caesar nodded. ‘That route would be the easiest. Priscus certainly seems to be trying to persuade me that is the route to take, circling wide through the lowlands. But I am acutely aware of the need for speed and surprise. By the time we have moved the army halfway through western Gaul, Vercingetorix could be all-powerful. He could have crushed Labienus and the legions and be waiting for us. No. I think it has to be the mountain passes, despite the danger of snow and other problems.

Brutus looked over at the older officer and the two men nodded unspoken thoughts. ‘Fronto and I are in concord, I think, Caesar. We’d rather fall on them unexpected, too. And that’s the shortest route toward the army, too.’

The general finally registered Aprilis’ presence.

‘Ah, tribune. Thank you for your attendance.’ The general strode around the table and smiled — a look that seemed unpleasantly predatory on that serious, aquiline face. ‘I am afraid I am about to take your army away with me. But fear not, for Narbo will be in no danger as I draw the eyes of Gaul with me to the north. However, I am aware that your forces have been spread over a wide area for some time and have had little sight of action for more than a decade. They will have adapted to garrison life well, I’m sure. So I will require their commander on my staff as we march north — a man who knows them and knows how to use them and motivate them while they readjust to life in the field.’

Aprilis felt a cold rock of fear settle in his stomach. To war? Into Gaul? He was too old — too fat and lazy if he were to be truthful — for campaigning in the field. Was Caesar punishing him? Aprilis was fairly sure that among the records on the desk were his unusual financial investments. He realised with cold certainty that Caesar knew about his interests and, if he did, he probably knew about the tax-skimming, the deals with certain notorious locals, and the whole gamut of troubles. He swallowed nervously and spoke in a shaky voice.

‘I… I would be honoured to take command…’

The older officer — Fronto? — rolled his eyes. ‘He doesn’t mean you, porky.’

Relief and confusion mixed with irritation at the reference to his ample shape, but Caesar’s voice cut through. ‘I have taken note of your activity here, Aufridius Aprilis.’

Here it comes. Please don’t have me stoned!

‘A man with your fascinating financial talents is wasted in the field. Aprilis, you are hereby appointed as Questor for the province. Strip off that ridiculous armour and find yourself another office. I want this province to turn an extra ten percent profit under your new position, rising to fifteen in the next year.’

Aprilis almost collapsed with relief and joy. ‘Proconsul, I would be…’

‘But bear in mind that I also want that rather substantial quantity of missing tax to find its way back into the coffers before the month is out.’

Aprilis could do little but nod, still flooded with relief.

‘We will be taking your adjutant, Aristius, who will receive his promotion to tribune in your place. He will command the garrison.’

Had he not been so restricted by the tightness of his armour, Aprilis might have laughed with joyful relief, or jumped in the air. He could hardly wait to tell his wife.

The miserable looking one called Fronto tromped across the floor and slapped a wax tablet in his surprised palm. ‘Your last task as tribune here, Aprilis, will be to acquire everything on this list and have it on carts beyond the river by the end of the day. Tomorrow we march into Gaul.’

Aprilis nodded his understanding. It didn’t matter what was on the list. It the man wanted a pack of elephants or a golden phallus or a bag of hen’s teeth he would do it. He had been given a reprieve and a glorious opportunity all at once, and he would not fail now.

May the gods help Aristius in the company of these eagles in human form. And pity the poor bastard Gauls who got in the way of that army!

* * * * *

The forces of Lucterius had grown beyond his expectation. From the two thousand men who had left Gergovia those weeks ago, he had managed to now field a force that he reckoned to number around eight thousand. And as he trotted his horse along the line of sweating, battle-hungry, optimistic warriors from a dozen tribes combined, he felt once again the pride of striking the initial blow against Rome — bringing war into their territory for the first time in many generations.

But still, the absence of their soldiers niggled him. As they had passed through the last area of upland, which would deposit them on the wide coastal plain a little over ten miles from Narbo, they had passed a Roman villa that hugged the hillside above the narrow valley, protected by a small fort of the usual Roman form. After some debate, Lucterius had decided that the place had to be taken for the army to pass unhindered, despite the trouble that always came with besieging a Roman fort.

But the whole place had fallen with hardly a murmur and, as the laughing warriors had happily looted the place and the villa nearby, Lucterius and Cunorix had performed a quick head count of the garrison. Thirty two men! In a fort clearly constructed for half a thousand and which held one of the few passes from the north right into the heartland of the Roman province. The hair on Lucterius’ arms and the back of his neck had been standing proud and nervous for more than a day now, and every sign that the Romans had withdrawn their forces had set his teeth more on edge. He had slept badly last night, assailed by prophetic dreams of a giant eagle ripping a boar to shreds with its iron talons.

In fact, if he’d not the confidence in his force that he had, he would have turned his army round before they even crossed the border ridge with its scarce-manned tower.

Another mental image of that dream eagle with gleaming talons flashed into his head and he was so busy telling himself to stop being so superstitious and foolish that he almost missed the shouts, and the riders were on him before he’d focused. Three of the scouts — two from his own Cadurci and one of the Ruteni more familiar with the region — were racing back along the rough column of men as though divine Sucellos followed them at a run, swinging his godly hammer.

Lucterius felt his heart catch in his throat.

‘What is it?’ he called to the riders as they slowed to his pace and came alongside. In fact, he had a horrible feeling he knew exactly what it was.

‘You need to see this,’ the Ruteni rider said quietly.

‘And halt the army,’ added his own man.

‘And tell them to be quiet,’ chipped in the third.

His heart pounding in his chest like a racing horse, he nodded to Cunorix and when his favoured warrior approached, he kept his voice low. ‘Have the army halt. Tell them it’s an impromptu leg-rest. But don’t have anyone blow the carnyx, and try keeping the shouting to a minimum.’

The warrior narrowed his eyes, but nodded and went back to the column as Lucterius kicked his horse into speed and raced off in the wake of the three scouts. His heart was still racing with an increasing sense of urgent foreboding as they left the front ranks of their army behind and veered off to the south, climbing the slope to the side of this shallow valley.

This region, to the south of the highlands that ran along the province’s border, consisted of a series of such slopes and valleys running alongside one another like the folds in a rucked blanket. The scouts stopped at the top, keeping in the shade of a small spread of beech trees that were still too bare for comfort, still longing for an end to the chill and the frost. Once they had reached an unspoken agreement, presumably that they were not being observed, the three men rode on down into the next shallow valley, perhaps five hundred paces across, aiming for another small knot of beech trees on the next rise. Lucterius wanted to question them, wanted to confirm what he already suspected, but the scouts were not slowing, and something made him keep from shouting.

Then, scarcely thirty heartbeats later they were approaching the top of the next rise, and the Ruteni scout was reining in behind the trees. The other two joined him and, nervously, their commander pulled up alongside them all.

The bottom fell out of Lucterius’ world as his eyes beheld the scene beyond the rise. An endless sea of iron and bronze helms and mail shirts! Shields of deep red with bull and lightning bolt designs rose and fell in perfect symmetry with every step. Hundred upon hundred upon hundred of the Roman javelins they called pila rose from the mass like the spines of a giant metal hedge pig. And at the far side, a small mass of cavalry. Other soldiers moved in groups here and there — not the heavy legionaries, but other forces that resembled the garrison troops of Narbonensis… the missing garrison!

Lucterius felt that lurch in his chest again and found himself counting the width of the column in men and extrapolating for the whole column, which stretched to the distance ahead and behind.

‘For the love of Taranis!’ he whispered. ‘There are thousands of them!’

‘More than us,’ added one of the scouts.

‘Not by much,’ Lucterius countered. ‘I reckon perhaps two legions, along with the garrison and the cavalry. Perhaps ten thousand men?’

The scout from his own tribe who had remained silent nodded. ‘Roughly ten.’

‘And we have eight thousand.’

Lucterius felt a moment of crucial decision weighing down on him. Eight to ten. But with the element of surprise. How had their scouts not spotted his army? Five Romans to every four of them. Worse odds had been carried in battle, especially with surprise on their side. But at the same time, a veteran legion was a behemoth of destruction. One legionary against one of the Cadurci and Lucterius would put his money on his kinsman every time. But put ten Romans in a line, with their encompassing shields, their pilum volleys and a good commander, and he would hesitate to move with a force even three times their number. It was too risky. He would lose. The garrison was one thing. Two veteran legions was a whole different matter.

His eyes scanned the cavalry and picked out certain figures among them. Yes. The officers, and the flag he had learned was Caesar’s: the bull. The man himself was here and in control of two legions and two more thousand support troops. Rome’s greatest general, who had bested the best.

Lucterius knew himself to be a solid fighter, a popular leader and a reasonably competent general. But men he had considered to be the best the tribes had to offer had pitted themselves against Caesar with the odds on their side and had been utterly, ruthlessly and mercilessly crushed.

No. One thing he was not was an idiot. To continue the campaign now was folly. And Caesar had somehow moved before they were all ready. The snake had already made his play… so quickly! Vercingetorix must be told. Had to be warned, lest he merrily continue his political manoeuvring while the Romans thrashed their way across the land.

‘Back,’ he hissed to the scouts. ‘Get back to the column. Tell them we are turning round and heading north.’

‘They won’t like it.’

‘They don’t have to. They just have to do it. We return to Vercingetorix so that we can field a grander army in the face of the Roman threat. We have missed our chance here. Tell the nobles in the valley to have their men stay as silent as possible, yet to move as though the bear-god was swiping at their backs. Caesar is making for the very pass we came through. If we do not get there first, Caesar will reach the rest of the tribes before us and all is lost. We are in a race for the pass and Vercingetorix’s army is at stake.’

As the three riders, unhappy with their tidings, rode off to move the army back the way they came, Lucterius sat beneath the shade of the beech tree and peered across the valley. The figure that could only be Caesar was pointing ahead and then gesturing out wide with his arm. His companion nodded. Fanning out. The distribution of scouts. Lucterius might feel as though fortune had deserted him, but the fact was: had they been a quarter of an hour later along the valley, the scouts now being ordered to deploy would have found them and battle would have been inevitable. And Lucterius was in no doubt as to how it would have ended.

‘I have no idea how you managed this, proconsul of Rome, but I vow that the next time we meet, I will not flee. Your days here are numbered.’

With a sigh of regret tinged with the urgent need to be away before the Romans came close, he wheeled his horse and raced off back towards the army.

* * * * *

The scout — one of Ingenuus’ cavalry, who had spent his formative years hunting in the hills north of Narbo, was waving, ahead. Fronto nudged Palmatus. ‘Find out what he wants.’

The commander of his guard nodded and kicked his horse, inexpertly, lurching forward with all the equestrian skill of a sick badger. Fronto had come out to the van, the bulk of Caesar’s army following along a quarter of a mile behind. Something about this place was making Fronto twitch, and though he couldn’t confirm it, he was sure that earlier this morning, when they were back in the shallower valleys, he had heard a carnyx blare in the distance. So he and his singulares guard had ridden out front to join up with the advance scouts and check the lie of the land.

In addition to Palmatus and Masgava, he was accompanied by Arcadios the archer, busy singing an old Cretan song in a low, thick, tuneless accent, Quietus — quite the loudest legionary Fronto had ever heard, Numisius, now fully recovered from his broken arm half a year earlier, Aurelius — the superstitious clown, Biorix the engineer, Iuvenalis the artillery expert and Celer — short, swift and far too good at dice to be playing fair. And Samognatos, his Condrusi scout, was out front on the far side of the valley. Ten men remaining of the nineteen he had led into the forest of Arduenna last year.

Aurelius cleared his throat.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Legatus, but my sword palm’s itchin’ like the three-day clap and my neck hair won’t stay flat. Something’s not right here.’

Fronto nodded absently. Normally, he took Aurelius’ feelings with a pinch of salt, despite his own reputation for prophetic feelings, but today he shared every bit of the legionary’s eerie premonition.

‘I agree. It looks like the scouts have found something. Hold tight.’

Palmatus rode back, having discussed something with the scout and the latter disappeared down into the valley, slowly, examining the ground. As the former legionary slowed, Fronto scratched his bristly chin.

‘What news, then?’

‘The strangest. There’s a small garrison fort up there at the valley side. Had a skeleton force of four contubernia in residence, but they’ve been killed. All evidence points to a Gallic attack. Beyond is a villa that appears to have been ravaged too. There’s signs of looting and damage.’

‘Looks like my fears have been well-founded,’ Fronto sighed, glancing side-long at Aurelius, who was shivering and kissing his Fortuna amulet.

‘That’s not the weird thing. He’s found tracks. In most places they’ve been hard to spot, as the ground’s so hard and track-resistant at the moment, but there’s a natural spring near the fort and the ground is kept damp because of it. There are the confusing tracks of a large number of both infantry and cavalry there.’

‘Not a surprise, given the destruction of the garrison. Odd that we’ve not seen whoever’s responsible, though. Which direction do the tracks lead?’

‘That’s the odd thing,’ Palmatus replied quietly. ‘Both. The ones heading north appear to be newer than the ones heading south, which are beneath them.’

‘So a large Gallic force came south into Roman territory, presumably when they discovered that we had withdrawn most of the garrison, and then turned round and left. Whether it’s because they heard about us or they’d merely had their fill of loot, it seems they’ve gone. It can only be a good thing anyway. If they were a large force I wouldn’t fancy pitting this lot against them. We’ve all seen what a full-strength Gallic army can do when their blood’s up, they’re well-rested, and probably battle-hardened. And all we have is eight thousand sons of shopkeepers dressed up like legionaries.’

He took a deep breath.

‘Anyway. Our sights are not set on local tribes and their opportunistic forays. I could go to Caesar with the news, but I can tell you right now he won’t sanction a hunt for them. He has his sights set on the mountain pass over the Cevenna range, behind which the Arverni await. He intends to hit Vercingetorix below the belt and see how he reacts. I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that when the women and children of his warriors are put to the sword.’

‘I don’t like leaving a potential enemy army floating around down here behind us,’ Palmatus muttered.

‘Nor do I. But we’re playing close to time here. We need to be over the mountains and among the Arverni before word reaches Vercingetorix that we are in his lands.’

He looked up at the hillside above. This valley was deep enough, but it would pale into insignificance when they reached the Cevenna. Priscus had already told him horror stories about the lofty passes.

‘Ah, shit. Here we go again.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos wiped the faint drizzle from his face, ground his teeth and let his gaze slip to his brother who rode alongside, unconcerned. Critognatos was more stubborn than any mule — smelled a little like one, though — and the almost continual alternating between tiresome argument and brooding silence between the pair had led to their escort of two dozen Arverni warriors from their home at Nemossos tactfully riding some forty paces behind, almost out of range of the bickering.

It was not unknown for brothers to argue, even rabidly, Cavarinos supposed, but the years had brought only a deepening of their disagreements and a widening of the rift that had begun to form between them even as children. It was a situation that their mother had bemoaned until the day the flux had taken her and that their father had demanded repeatedly that they repair.

Both brothers had made their attempts over the years to stitch that tear in the fabric of the family, but every attempt had failed, and had often widened the gap. Cavarinos had repeatedly tried to find common ground that they could use to lay the foundations of a new relationship, but inevitably, Critognatos would bring it back to being the will of some god or spirit, which Cavarinos simply could not accept. The gods may or may not exist, but he knew in his heart that it was he, and not some invisible, intangible force that widened or narrowed their rift. His oafish brother had, in fairness, made his own attempts at healing, but they inescapably revolved around something or other that Critognatos loved, which was almost always something abhorrent to his brother.

And so the rift divided them and, it seemed, would always do so.

Cavarinos took another preparatory breath and launched once more into his point.

‘The thing is, brother, that while we were given two orders and told which of us should pursue each goal, we are now many leagues away from Vercingetorix and the rest, and no one will ever know if I stir up the tribes and you go hunting magical acorns or whatever from the druids.’

Critognatos flashed that familiar look at him. ‘You heard the king. It is the will of Ogmios that you find the curse.’

‘And it is the will of me that you find the curse.’

‘No. It must be done the way the gods will it. Would you deny and defy Ogmios and risk your all? I will not.’

Cavarinos, still grinding away at his molars, turned his attention to the road before them, and the oppidum at the end of that short stretch of dirt and gravel. Vellaunoduno rose upon a low hill, augmented with heavy earth-backed ramparts. On a rising spur, the western, northern and eastern slopes were high and powerful, while a long, gentle gradient led to the south gate, where the road wound in through the defences. It then disappeared among the packed structures that poured wood smoke up into the grey sky, undampened by the blanket of fine mizzle. The gate lay open, though four warriors stood on the ramparts beside it, ready to slam and bar it should the need suddenly arise.

The brothers approached in cantankerous silence, their horses’ hooves the only noise in the oppressive atmosphere. The guards threw out a quick request for them to identify themselves and then permitted them entrance to the oppidum without further question, charging them to keep their escort under control and that no weapons be drawn, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of the magistrate’s justice.

The town, one of many such that belonged to the Senones, was dirty and chaotic, houses packed tightly together, the streets so muddy and filled with ordure that the cobbles only showed in rare glimpses.

‘It’s a sign,’ Critognatos hissed suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence as he made repeated warding motions. Cavarinos followed his gaze to see a stone slab rising beside a blacksmith’s forge, the figure of a squat, wide man with long bushy hair, a great club and heavy cross-hatched trousers carved upon it. Cavarinos could not help but notice that Ogmios here was depicted with neither beard nor moustache. It seemed odd. No facial hair at all almost universally meant either a child or a Roman. On his occasional trips into Narbonensis and to the Greek port of Massilia, Cavarinos had seen their great temples to Hercules who was also Herakles. It occurred to him that Ogmios was almost exactly the same, although shorter, more deformed and most definitely more ugly. If the tribes were going to honour their gods, he found it ridiculous that the druids advocated the raising of these hideous depictions, while the hated enemy to the south made their Hercules realistic and handsome, painted to be so lifelike, and enthroned him in temples that were grander than any royal palace in any of the tribes of what they called Gaul.

Sometimes, Cavarinos could not help in his gut wondering what the tribes would be capable of given the learning, the support and the friendship of Rome instead of this interminable conflict.

‘It is not a sign. It is a lump of stone.’

‘This is Ogmios, brother,’ Critognatos snarled. ‘Do not deny the clear sign. You speak of defying his will and immediately we find him watching you. He has gifted us a great gift, dropping it from the clouds into the hands of the shepherds that we may use it to finally destroy the Romans!’

Unless Ogmios is actually Hercules and all this is an immense and sick joke upon us all, Cavarinos muttered under his breath. He glanced across at his brother and noted the look of sheer devoted nervousness in his eyes. The truth hit him then: it mattered not whether Ogmios was the great god, or just their name for the Roman club-bearer, or even a figment of their imagination. It mattered not whether this curse was a powerful weapon sent by a vengeful god, or a magic artefact crafted by the druids in secret and accounted that of a god, or just drivel hacked into a stone by a madman.

No.

What mattered was belief.

Critognatos was so consumed by his belief that if a druid told him to walk off a cliff because Taranis asked him to, his brother would leap into the abyss with joy in his heart. Faith was a powerful force. And his brother was far from alone in this belief. Indeed the vast bulk of the army of Vercingetorix and the tribes that supplied those forces were every bit as prey to superstition as Critognatos.

The curse didn’t have to kill. It didn’t have to be infused with the power of a god. So long as the army believed it did, they would revere it and fight all the harder, filled with courage and sureness by the mystical.

His brother was right about one thing. Cavarinos did have to retrieve that tablet, and wield it, so that the army’s courage was bolstered.

‘Very well,’ he said, bowing faintly to the stone, despite the fact that the act made him feel foolish. ‘I will go and hunt the curse of Ogmios in the warrens and secret places of the shepherds. And you will raise the tribes to Vercingetorix’s cause.’

His brother nodded his agreement.

‘But,’ Critognatos replied, ‘you should not return to the army when you find it. Such a sacred gift is too precious to risk on the road south alone. Wait until I am finished in my task, and we will all travel back together, with our warriors to protect you.’

‘Agreed.’

‘We shall not be more than three weeks before we are ready to return. Any longer than that and Vercingetorix will find himself committed and we risk the Romans finding out and committing their own armies in the field. We need to be back by then, along with whatever forces we can raise.’

Again, Cavarinos nodded. ‘Agreed. Then we shall meet here in three weeks. I may be here earlier, of course, but I will keep the tablet secure until you join me.’

In one of those rarest of occasions, his brother cracked his miserable face with a smile and reached out to grip Cavarinos’ hand.

‘Good luck, brother.’

Cavarinos found himself shaking the hand in surprise. ‘And to you.’

Chapter 4

High in the Cevenna range.

Februarius had come and the advancement of another month on the calendar did nothing to bring signs of spring any closer. Indeed, as the army of Julius Caesar moved ever higher into the lofty peaks of the region over the succeeding days, winter seemed to come down on them with renewed vigour, running the whole gamut from chilling rain through hail, ice, sleet and snow. The legions, while they had been partially trained, well-equipped and thoroughly enthusiastic, were little prepared for such conditions and were finding the journey hard.

After only a day and a half moving up from the border, they began to pass through lands owned by the Helvii tribe, who refused to show themselves in any strength to the invasive force, melting away as soon as the scouts saw them and scattering among the high peaks and deep valleys to seek shelter in caves or hidden fortresses. Initially, Caesar had given the order that such groups when seen should be dealt with, since they at least nominally owed allegiance to the Arverni and their king, Vercingetorix. In the event, the practicality of sending barely-trained, frost-bitten legionaries or out-of-condition garrison troops after such parties was soon brought home to them when half a century of men vanished over a cliff in a small avalanche caused by a blaring carnyx. Since then, for the next three days, Caesar’s strict orders had been for the men to stay together in the column and to do their best to support one another through the harsh conditions. The few tribesmen they managed to entrap were simple farmers and woodsmen with no knowledge of events beyond their own village, yet whose local knowledge was proving invaluable in the army’s passage of the peaks.

It was at times like this when Fronto missed the companionship of his Belgic friend, Galronus, who always seemed to have some insight into their surroundings. For a moment he wondered whether the Remi noble had returned to Massilia yet, or whether he was still in Campania. Galronus and Fronto’s sister had been very coy and evasive when they had planned their journey, citing the need to visit her mother and discuss a match.

A small flurry of snowflakes dusted his face and halted his reverie.

Fronto, for once grateful to be on horseback, though he feared for Bucephalus’ health with every bone-jolting shiver, rode up from the rear of the column where he had been discussing the issue of stolen supplies with Oppius Proculus, the quartermaster who had accompanied the column from Aquileia. His singulares followed a short way behind, limited by the terrain and weather to trudging in his wake. Kicking Bucephalus into a little extra speed and praying to every god he could name that the foot-and-a-half deep snow concealed no sudden drops or animal bolt-holes, he raced to the van, where he could now see the scouts and the lead elements of the unnamed legion gathered in a group. The entire column was shuffling to a halt in response to the sudden stoppage at the fore, and the men stamped their feet on the spot despite the lack of forward movement, determined to keep as warm as they could.

Fronto neared the lead elements and began to slow his mount as they approached the slight rise in the saddle between white-clad peaks. The men had halted at the very crest and Fronto reined in beside them, taking a moment to scan the area before addressing the hold-up. Caesar was towards the rear still, in discussion with Aristius and Priscus over the need to up the training of the troops on the journey, despite the conditions. He could hear his singulares catching up. Palmatus and Masgava would berate him for charging out ahead without them, but only nature and the gods stood to ruin Fronto’s day here, and the best gladiator in the world could not beat them.

His eyes took in the view directly ahead, where the pass crossed the highest region of the mountain range. The trail ahead, to which they had been directed by those same few locals they had managed to interrogate, was as invisible as that behind, submerged beneath a white sheet that blanketed the world, fresh flakes already beginning to fall and add to it after a three hour lull in the blizzards. To the left, a deep valley plunged down into the abyss, its lowest reaches concealed by a freezing fog that denied them clear vision. To the right, a set of jagged peaks rose one after the other, as though shadowing the beleaguered army on its journey.

‘Why have we stopped,’ he asked irritably.

‘Respectfully, sir, we don’t see how we can get past that.’

Fronto frowned at the man who had spoken. He was an ordinary legionary, though a little older than many of the recent recruits, and the ochre-coloured focale, or scarf, he wore around his neck, tucked beneath the armour and almost concealed under his heavy wool cloak, identified him as a sapper or a man with at least some engineering experience. Fronto had been about to retort angrily to the man, given the differences in rank, but years in the army had taught him that while engineers might well be the weirdest bunch ever to grace the world with their peculiar presence, if they had an opinion it was always worth hearing them out.

‘Explain.’

The man frowned as though Fronto had asked him to explain why up was above you. ‘Well, look at it, sir.’

Fronto did as he was asked, and once more saw the white blanket that had buried the landscape. ‘It looks exactly the same as the last two or three stretches between peaks. And we’re not far from the point where the descent begins according to the locals.’

‘Erm… look again, sir.’

Fronto was starting to get irritated now.

‘Snow. I’ve seen it.’

‘But in the snow, sir.’

Fronto, utterly bewildered now and wondering whether they were somehow looking in different directions, peered into the white, trying to ignore the increasing fresh deluge trying to conceal the view. ‘There’s little shrubs and bushes sticking out of it here and there. That’s good. Tells us that there’s no hidden drop.’

The engineer gave him another look as though a chicken had just pushed its way out of his ear, confused by Fronto’s apparent oblivion. One of the scouts leaned closer from his horse and cleared his throat.

‘They’re not bushes, Legate. They’re the tips of trees. Firs of some kind, in fact. Fully grown ones, too.’

Fronto turned his unbelieving gaze back to the path ahead. They did look suspiciously like treetops. ‘But if that’s true then that path is under anything between ten and forty feet of snow! That’s not possible.’

‘It’s quite possible, sir. Your own eyes can confirm it for you.’

‘It’s not quite as deep as you might think, though,’ announced the voice of Priscus as the prefect slowed his mount, arriving at the van along with Brutus, Aristius and Caesar himself, Palmatus and Masgava sitting respectfully to the side with their men.

‘I remember this part from the other direction. The path through the pass actually runs to the left of the trees and is probably only six or seven feet deep. Yes,’ he added, squinting into the snow. ‘The Helvii mark their individual territories with posts that display tribal signs — we’ve seen half a dozen of them as we passed. Unless I’m very much mistaken, I can see another down there to the left of the trees.’

Fronto nodded slowly. There was at least a mile of that snow, possibly as much as two. It was a daunting prospect, especially for an army that was already freezing and falling foul of sickness from the conditions. ‘Well we can hardly go back, and so we must go on. You,’ he went on, pointing at the engineer. ‘How fast can you and your men manage to clear snow?’

The man tapped his finger on his chin. ‘If we have to bring it down to clear ground and wide enough for the supply wagons, it’s going to be a very slow job. Half a week, perhaps, depending on conditions as we go.’

Fronto pursed his lips. ‘And how fast if it’s for an infantry column?’

‘Two men wide, sir? If there’s no vehicles we only need to take it down roughly to a foot or so. The rest will soon get trampled down. Much faster. A day. Maybe two.’

‘Get to work. You’re in charge.’ He turned to Caesar, who was watching him with interest. ‘General?’

‘Do as you think best, Fronto.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He pointed at the engineer. ‘You just got commissioned, centurion. It’s your project. I’m granting you the authority to use every soldier in this army if you have to, barring a couple of centuries I’m commandeering. Rotate the men for rest breaks, but get that pass opened for a narrow column of infantry.’

He turned to the general again.

‘We’re going to have to leave the wagons, sir.’

Caesar nodded. ‘It is only perhaps thirty miles to the lower slopes now. We will soon be in Arverni lands and once we are among them, we will take everything we need and burn the rest, replacing our lost provisions. Now we need to move fast.’

‘Agreed, sir. We will have to distribute the most important supplies from the wagons among the men to carry, though we can use the beasts that have been hauling the cart if we unhook them.’

‘Every effort must be made, as well as every sacrifice,’ Caesar said loudly as he hauled himself from the saddle and slid down to the ground, where his expensive gorgon-embossed boots sank into the snow. ‘Every rider in the column is hereby ordered to give up his beast for the transport of supplies. We will all walk until we are out of the snow.’

Fronto couldn’t help but smile. The general sometimes drove him to the very edge of his temper with his unyielding attitude, but on the occasions when he shone, the man shone so bright the sun would envy him.

* * * * *

Samognatos, the scout of the Condrusi tribe who had now been attached to Fronto’s bodyguard for almost a year and on this most difficult journey had become something of a preferred figure among the scouts for his intuition and inside knowledge of the workings of the Gallic mind, reined in his sweating, snorting steed and nodded to his commander and to the general.

‘What have you found?’

The scout gestured out across the rolling hills ahead, a range of green mountains sprinkled with white in the distance to the north. The dreadful conditions of the snow-clogged passage through the Cevenna had taken its toll on the forces of Caesar, and every man had been grateful and thrown up thanks and promises to the Gods when they had left behind the whitened treeline and descended into the low hills of the Arverni lands.

‘A settlement beyond the hill. Not large and without defences. Perhaps thirty houses and a few outlying farms. Something near a quarter of a mile from edge to edge. There are signs of current occupation, but not more than a hundred inhabitants at an estimate and the only horses I spotted were farm beasts.’

Fronto and Caesar both looked at Priscus, who shrugged. ‘When we came through here, we tried to stay as far away from built-up areas as possible. We came down a valley to the west of here.’

Behind him, Fabius and Furius exchanged looks and the latter cleared his throat. ‘When we were at Gergovia, I remember Pixtilos,’ he noted Fronto’s frown and paused to explain, ‘a tame Arvernian merchant we dealt with,’ and back to Priscus, ‘Pixtilos named three settlements heading south between Gergovia and the mountains.’

Priscus nodded. ‘I remember Briva. We had to give that place a wide berth.’

‘Right. And south from there are Revessio and Condate. He said Condate was in the lower mountain valleys. He used to deliver grain there. We’re past that area now, so maybe this is Revessio.’

Caesar pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘This is all very fascinating, but I am more concerned with the lie of the land than its nomenclature. We are in a race against time here, along with Vercingetorix. I have no doubt that he works to strengthen his forces, while ours remain spread thin. We have to gain the upper hand — combine our forces and harry him — to turn the tables on this Arverni rebel.’

‘And how do we do that?’ Fronto huffed in a cloud of chilled breath.

‘It begins here, gentlemen. As a concerted force, we wipe this settlement from the face of Gaul, so all that remains is a column of smoke visible for ten miles, but we make sure we allow a few to escape and carry the word of our work. I will leave the infantry here under the command of…’ he paused, his eyes on Fronto for a moment until he shook his head and moved on. ‘…Brutus. You will take the remaining seven thousand new legionaries and the Narbonensis garrison under Aristius. I will leave you a few alae of cavalry and I expect you to continue the men’s training while they work. Your remit is simple: move around the entire Arverni region, ravaging and destroying. Make sure you leave survivors to tell the tale. I want word of this wanton destruction to reach the ears of their King. He will not be able to resist coming to deal with you.’

‘Respectfully, Caesar, if he does that, we are in serious trouble,’ Brutus said quietly.

‘That is why I want you to be lightly-equipped and highly mobile. You will hit places and then run. Move on all the time. Stay out of reach of any army sent after you, but keep needling this Arvernian by destroying his people. You will need to travel light, so no supplies or heavy equipment. Live in the field and train the men in the art of forage survival.’ Brutus nodded his understanding, Aristius straight faced beside him.

‘While we do what?’ asked Fronto.

‘While we rendezvous with the rest of the army. We are now far enough north that we will be past the bulk of the enemy who watch the Rhodanus valley, and if Brutus does his job here with adequate zeal and vigour, all rebel eyes will be upon him. While he ravages, we will make for Vienna, move up the Rhodanus, picking up the legions in the two smaller winter camps and head for Agedincum where we shall mass the army. On the journey we will take only Ingenuus and his praetorians, and each of us will be mounted, so we will move much faster than the Arvernian and his force.’

‘And then?’

Caesar smiled hawkishly. ‘And then, while the rebel has been forced to halt his recruiting and deal with the trouble in his southern lands, we will begin the work of suppressing the north, removing his power bases. We will isolate him from his allies, the Carnutes, and then begin to drive south, pinning him against the mountains and our other forces. We have an opportunity here to trick the man into a dangerous position and finish him off. We will not waste it.’

He looked across once more at Brutus. ‘I will take my guard and depart now with appropriate officers. Begin your work, Brutus, and draw the eye of the rebel south.’

* * * * *

Marcus Aristius, newly-raised tribune commanding the Narbonensis garrison, leaned around the tree and peered at the settlement below. The collection of huts and houses that they had named Revessio — whether it was or not — lay peaceful, almost slumbering. No more than a hundred folk could live there, including women, children and the elderly.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Once Caesar and his officers and guard had departed, the noble Brutus had quickly taken stock of the situation and decided that it was time to begin assessing the capabilities of the new units, but in concert with one another. Aristius had been given the task of destroying the settlement and allowing no more than half a dozen survivors to flee, making sure to drive them north, towards Vercingetorix and his army.

With an estimated hundred residents, Aristius had settled upon only a small force as a first test. One century of the garrison troops under a centurion who had cut his teeth on Spanish tribal wars, one century of the new legionaries with a centurion who’d just come out of retirement, but had fought in Caesar’s first year in Gaul, and a single ala of thirty two horse. Just short of two hundred men. Plenty for the task. The place would likely have the usual contingent of fighting men found in any Gallic settlement, but not many. Most would be farm folk.

With a series of signals that he hoped were not open to misinterpretation, he sent the lighter-armed garrison troops down to the right, into the valley, held his hand up to the legionaries to remain in position, and gestured for the cavalry to move down into the other valley on their left and behind the screen of trees that bordered the stream which ran along the bottom of it.

Despite his position in the military government of Narbonensis and his apparently-advancing rank, Aristius had never yet in his career commanded a unit in action, and he found his heart racing. It was not the fear of battle or combat — he would not be expected to do any actual fighting, he was sure — it was the fear of failing in his first command. Of making a fool of himself. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he watched the two departing units moving into position in the valleys and as soon as both had stopped moving, he had the standard bearer wave commands to the three forces.

So far, so good.

In response to the signal, the legionaries behind him began to approach with the measured step of trained soldiers, their mail chinking and their boots crunching on the cold ground where the grass of the hilltop was still hard with morning frost. They looked every bit the veteran legion. He could only hope they fought like one.

The garrison, to his dismay, were already falling behind, unable to pull together into a cohesive unit and keep pace. He could just make out the optio smacking legs and backs with his staff, pulling the unit into vague order. To his relief, they moved to quick pace and began to catch up, slowing once more as they pulled level and forming better lines.

As per orders, the cavalry waited until the two infantry forces began to move on the village and the standard waved again, and then burst into activity, racing along the treeline and making for the outlying houses and farm buildings.

Aristius opened his mouth as he felt the gradient start to pull him at speed towards the enemy, but it seemed the centurions were already ahead of the game as the man with the transverse crest a dozen paces to his left yelled out the command for quick time.

As the cavalry raced in, converging from the left and the garrison troops picked up the pace on their right, two things happened simultaneously: a shout of alarm went up in the settlement with a bell ringing in desperation, and chaos struck the force descending the hill behind Aristius. The new legionaries marched well, but as the pace suddenly increased at the same time as the gradient, the men — unused to such activity and unable to maintain formation, suddenly broke apart. Two men in the second row lost their footing and fell, bringing down the legionaries in front of them. Those behind largely veered around the chaos, but their own change of direction impacted on other files of men and caused further falls and collisions. In moments, half the century was rolling down the hill in the clatter and crash of armour and weapons, shields splintering and chain-mail hooks snapping. The other half were leaping over fallen bodies or swerving wide to pass them.

Aristius fought the irritation at this display of novice incompetence, noting with a small spark of pride that his own garrison troops were now managing to hold tight formation as they moved into a charge and bore down on the terrified Gauls.

The centurion called out new commands and as the slope became gentler once more the legionaries who had kept their feet reformed into a tight unit and moved into a charge. The optio, left behind on the lower slope, was beating his staff down on the hapless fallen men, yelling at them to get up and run. Gradually the flounderers dragged themselves into a run with no formation at all, following on in the wake of their compatriots, hungry to redeem themselves.

Aristius found that despite his intentions of leading from the rear, he had ended up automatically running at the front, parallel with the centurion. As they leapt over narrow irrigation ditches running with icy water and through the muddy, empty wheat fields suffering the throes of winter, he saw farmers emerging from the huts with pitchforks and sickles and staves — any makeshift weapon they could produce from their farm stores.

With a slight detour to race through the open gateway in a fence rather than having to hurdle it, Aristius raised his gladius, wishing he had a large body shield like the legionaries under his command. One particularly tall man with golden hair shot through with grey and moustaches that hung to below his jaw, ran straight for him, a sickle in his right hand and some sort of small knife in his left.

As the sickle came out for a side sweep, Aristius found that despite the somewhat formulaic and rigid training his father had him receive from a retired soldier, the reactions that flowed through him in response seemed to have been born more from careful observation of the better gladiators than the stab, twist, withdraw he had been taught.

His body automatically shifted left and back, allowing the sickle free path through the air in front of him, though the blow was so close that it caught the baldric that held his scabbard and he felt the weight of it drop away to the ground. Damn, that sickle must be sharp!

The man might be a farmer, but he was quick. Before Aristius had recovered himself, the knife was coming for him and, though he desperately dodged back to the right, the blade dug a deep line across his bicep, bringing white hot pain with it.

Something happened then. Without conscious thought or intent, the tribune found his sword hand coming up. He had no room for a thrust, but his body seemed to have registered that long before his brain and his hand, apparently with a mind of its own, crashed into the man’s face. Wrapped around the bone hilt of the gladius and largely protected by the wide pommel and guard, his fist smashed the man’s nose and cheek together in one blow, as well as mangling an eye.

Aristius watched his victim in astonishment as the famer staggered back, blood pouring from his face. The tribune actually blinked in surprise as his fist struck again and repeated the blow, knocking the farmer back a few more paces.

As the man shuddered, his arms out at his sides and still gripping the twin weapons, the world and all its sounds and smells came rushing back in to Aristius’ senses and with a cry of pure fury, he slammed into the reeling farmer, knocking him flat to the ground, the sickle and knife skittering off to the sides.

The tribune, his first taste of the horrifying, thrilling adrenaline of battle suffusing him, went down with the floundering Gaul and his arm bent back at the elbow and then shot forward, stabbing the steel point into the man’s chest. The Gaul tried to yell something, and Aristius could not quite hear it, let alone understand it, but he was certain it was a cry of defiance, for the man’s one good eye carried only hate and strength.

Pulling back again, his blade left the man’s chest with a spray of blood that washed across the tribune’s face and filled his mouth with a cloying iron tang, and yet still the Gaul seemed to be trying to rise. With a cry to Mars for strength, the tribune smashed his sword down into the man’s gut, and then again into the chest.

Again…

Again.

He was not at all sure how long he had been here and when the uncontrollable anger had begun to subside, but Aristius blinked as a hand closed on his shoulder in a gentle yet firm grip.

‘Come on, sir.’

‘I… I…’

‘He’s dead sir. Stand up, sir.’

Surrendering to the calm voice, Aristius stood, his eyes taking in the shape beneath him, ripped ragged with half a hundred stab wounds. He blinked in surprise. He remembered three… maybe four. He turned with a confused expression to see the veteran centurion standing next to him, an unperturbed look on his face.

‘It… he just…’

‘First barney, sir?’

All Aristius could do was nod dumbly. The centurion smiled, showing two missing teeth and a badly split lip, long-healed. ‘Takes everyone different, sir. Some dither and some panic. Those who do either don’t last long. Most well-trained soldiers just accept it and get on with it. Some odd ‘uns get the spirit o’ Mars and Minerva right in the gut, sir, just like that. Shame you wear the tribune’s tunic, sir. You’d make a fuckin’ dangerous centurion, beggin’ your pardon.’

With a grin, the centurion patted him on the back.

‘It’s over?’ Aristius managed without shaking too heavily.

‘Yessir. Just farmers. We tried to be selective. We let more than half a dozen escape, though, sir. More like two dozen. None of the new lads much wanted to deal with the children, though there’s a few captive women in them huts as is becomin’ well-acquainted with the odd soldier if you get my drift, sir.’

Aristius could not find it in himself to argue with the leniency of allowing children to flee. These tribes folk may be the enemy, but they were little different from the Gauls of Narbonensis who paid their taxes and enjoyed the benefits of Rome. He couldn’t quite imagine putting his sword through the chest of a six year old boy in Narbo’s fruit market.

‘Well done, centurion. I think we can count this a success.’

‘One thing occurs, sir. There were no warriors here. None at all. I reckon as they’re all in the north with the rebels.’

Aristius nodded. ‘Then we may feel a little less nervous about our position, centurion, so far from our allied legions.

‘Yessir. This was a bit of a mess, I’ll grant you, but it’s the first time any of these lot have ever seen their own sword draw blood, I reckon, and most of ‘em are only part trained, so we have to give ‘em a bit o’ leeway. Next time will go smoother, and in between we’ll start drilling some sense of discipline into the buggers.’

As the centurion saluted and jogged off to a call from the optio, Aristius took in the scene of carnage before him and the iron tang of blood in the air made him shudder.

This is just the beginning. How many of these attacks would it take to bring Vercingetorix down on them?

* * * * *

Cavarinos trod warily, his boot slipping on the mossy stones. The Carnute magistrate who administrated the settlement of Briga had been reluctant to give him directions to this place, his eyes constantly flicking to the carved sacred stone in the village’s centre, but Cavarinos’ reasoned argument that the druids had been the ones to raise Vercingetorix to his position and that it was that same leader who had sent him to recover the curse had swayed him.

It seemed that none of the — clearly highly superstitious — inhabitants of Briga ventured into this section of woodland that made up part of the great forest of the Carnutes yet was considered wholly separate and sacred to Ogmios above all. As was his wont, Cavarinos had scoffed at their credulity in the privacy of his own head while maintaining a polite façade.

Following the instructions, the Arverni noble had reached the forest, tethered his horse, searched the treeline for a time and then fought his way in through the undergrowth, strangely unable to find a track or path leading into the foliage and to the sacred nemeton he sought.

His heart had almost jumped from his mouth when a badger, presumably disturbed by his passage, had actually run at him from the shadows of the forest floor and stopped but two feet away, growling and snarling, watching him intently. This strange behaviour, particularly during the daylight hours, was as nothing when a moment later three more of the creatures appeared at speed, side-by-side with the first as though forming ranks on a battlefield.

Despite his self-avowed practicality and disbelief in the oddities that seemed to fill the hearts of most of his peers, even Cavarinos was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable in the circumstances. He had departed what he assumed to be the badgers’ territory at some speed.

His foot slipped off another of the slimy green stones that seemed to be arranged in the shapes of buildings long gone among the boles and roots of the pine trees, and this time he fell heavily, throwing out his hands with a thud into the blanket of mud and pine needles to arrest his fall As he slowly straightened, an odd thing occurred to him.

Breathing shallow and almost silently, he frowned. Stooping, he picked up the offending stone, its surface slippery and unpleasant. Raising it above his head, he threw it down as hard as he could onto the other rocks that seemed to have once formed a wall.

It hit with a loud crack and split in half. Cavarinos looked up, listening to the echo of the crack again and again through the woodland.

Curious.

He had seen noises much quieter than either that or his earlier fall send up clouds of cawing and flapping birds in woodlands such as this. Where were the birds?

‘Have some respect, young man.’

In his state of heightened senses, Cavarinos jumped slightly at the voice from mere feet behind him, and turned in surprise. He had been listening carefully for the rock and the sounds of avian life and yet had heard no sign of the man’s approach.

The visitor wore a pair of warm, oft-repaired wool trousers and a tunic of midnight blue with green stitch. His grey hair was held in place with a silver circlet and his beard was trimmed neatly to perhaps an inch long. One of his eyes was half-closed by an old scar that had left an impression on his socket both above and below, and his left ear was missing entirely. Yet, despite this odd appearance, what drew Cavarinos’ curiosity was the man’s outer-wear. Against all probability, he seemed to be wearing a lion skin about his shoulders and down his back, the mane creating some sort of shawl and the paws tied below his chin. Cavarinos had seen a lion once, on a visit to Narbo with a delegation when the Arverni were considered allies of Rome. He had watched the poor beast in the arena there rip a man apart and then get ruthlessly speared for its efforts. How did a man up here get hold of such a pelt?

He realised as he regarded the staff upon which the man leant and noted its vaguely club-like shape, that the form of dress was likely some sort of homage to Ogmios — the pelt and club the same as the manner in which the Greeks portrayed him.

Druids.

‘I slipped.’

‘And then deliberately defiled an ancient place.’

‘It’s a mossy rock that broke on other mossy rocks.’

The druid held him in a penetrating gaze and finally brushed the matter aside, though clearly storing the act for later reference.

‘It is said,’ Cavarinos went on quietly, ‘that you hold a curse from Ogmios himself.’

‘And yet you come here a destructive and heedless unbeliever.’

‘Pragmatist.’

‘Unbeliever.’

Cavarinos sighed. ‘I was sent by Vercingetorix to retrieve the item. Have you got it and if so, do you have any intention of passing it to me, else I am wasting my time and may as well leave?’

The druid placed both palms on the top of the staff-club and leaned on it, placing his chin on the top. ‘You do not believe in the curse.’

‘Frankly, no. I believe in credulous folk beseeching gods for curses, which I have seen time and again and have yet to see answered. Do I believe that a great god of words and corpses took the time out of his busy schedule to jot down a spell that will kill a man who hears it? That a god would need to write such a thing? No, I do not. I believe that you and your power-mad friends wrote the curse and attributed it to a god to fool the people.’

The druid gave him a knowing smile that set his teeth on irritable edge and Cavarinos eyed the man suspiciously. The shepherds of the people were sacrosanct, of course, untouchable by most and revered by all. Almost all. Cavarinos trusted them about as far as he could spit a hunting hound and would rather spend time with a Roman than a druid, truth be told.

They were powerful, for sure, and they knew things that most men would never understand in a hundred lifetimes of learning, but they were also interested only in their own goals and not those of their people, no matter what they claimed. 'Shepherds of the people' was a misnomer as far as Cavarinos was concerned. 'Controllers of the people' was more like.

But they were needed this year. They were necessary during this time of struggle. The druids could never have hoped to field an army in the manner of the nations around the southern sea without Vercingetorix, but neither could Vercingetorix have hoped to build that army without the aid of the druids, who bound the people together with invisible chains. They needed each other, and so the uneasy alliance between the great chief and the gods' magicians would continue.

Until the war was over.

Then, Vercingetorix would be able to put them in their place. Cavarinos believed he’d almost persuaded the chief that the druids had become too powerful. That they could make Vercingetorix king over all the Gaulish tribes showed just how powerful they had become, and his leader knew that. The druids were there to please the Gods, perform the rituals, and interpret the wishes of the powers. Not to control the people.

The Arvernian rolled his shoulders, the Roman mail shirt he had taken from a centurion the year before shushing as he moved, the sword-damage among the links repaired by one of the finest smiths using bronze rings forged from the dead man's own medals. His once-Roman helmet still bore the centurion's crest holder, though black crow feathers and a silver serpent rose from it now, and that same smith had hammered good embossed images of a leaping boar and a running stag into the bronze bowl of the skull.

'I will have your oath upon the life of your king and the success of your endeavour that you will keep the curse safe until the time comes to use it, and that you will show it to no other?'

Cavarinos sighed. 'I thought I might go sell it in Narbo. Use the profits to bed a hundred Egyptian whores. Or perhaps I'll wipe my arse with it…'

The druid glared at him, and the Arvernian rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, I will keep it safe. And no, I will not let anyone take it from me.'

‘Then it is the will of the lord of words and corpses that I entrust this to you.’ The druid eyed him for long moments before he fished into his voluminous robe and drew out a bundle some hand-span in each dimension. He paused again before he reached out to the visiting warrior and passed the item over.

Cavarinos lifted the small bundle and began to unwind the wrappings. It was light and brittle within. Made from pottery?

'Do not open it yet. It will lose its power if you reveal its markings now. It will be useless when it is needed. Have you any idea how rare this is?'

'Have you any idea how little I care?' the warrior sighed again. 'This war will be won by men with strong sword arms, mailed chests, the ability to stand against a Roman and the desire to see them beaten. It will not be won by magical trinkets and bric-a-brac. The value of this thing,' he added, brandishing the package, ‘is in the morale it will bring to our warriors.’

'Ogmios is not a giving God. He is a taker — of tributes, of souls, of lives. He only gives when he knows it is needed, and his curse-tablets are so rare that some chiefs are hoarding ones a thousand years old, considering them too precious to use. This curse is destined for an enemy of our peoples — and a specific one — though who that is will only be revealed to you in time, when the boar and the eagle are locked in a struggle, bound by the sword. Do not waste it now.'

Cavarinos stared at the item, and then huffed his irritation and folded the wrappings tight once more. 'Tell your wyrd brothers that it is in the right hands.'

The druid nodded and turned, threading his way back among the trees and out of sight. Cavarinos eyed the bundle again as though it might bite him if he held it wrong and, reluctantly, pushed it inside his mail shirt for safety, giving him an odd lump in his belly area. For a moment, he could not get his bearings and wondered which way he had come, but he realised he had left something of a trail pushing through the trees. Curious that the druid seemed not to have done. Still, he turned and began to make his way back out from this strange wood, to where his horse was tethered in a field of rich grass.

Now to ride to Vellaunoduno and meet up with Critognatos before they returned to the army.

* * * * *

Fronto wondered idly whether his backside would ever be the same. It felt as though someone had opened up the skin, pushed in half a broken amphora in jagged chunks and then sewn it back up again. He was no stranger to protracted periods in the saddle, but he had never before ridden for a week, day and night, with only the shortest of breaks to catch a little sleep and rest the horses. It honestly felt now as though Bucephalus had been riding him for the past two days rather than the other way around.

Their route had taken them from the heartlands of the Arverni, across the highlands and into the valley of the Iaresis river, which had deposited them at the city of Vienna late in the second day of travel, all the time keeping as far from population centres as possible. In Vienna they found a small Roman wagon train and its cavalry escort that had been trapped there for almost a month, the valley in both directions deemed too dangerous for travel. Leaving the goods and the merchants to make their way south as best they could, they took the cavalry into their force and rested a full night for a change.

From there they had suffered a nerve-wracking three days’ travel up the valley of the Rhodanus, all the time watching their flanks and their rear, expecting the agents of the Arverni or their allies to spring some deadly trap on them. Yet the only time they had encountered clear danger had been when the advance scouts had spotted a large party of riders armed for war ahead, large enough to have resoundingly beaten Caesar’s party. The Roman column had lain low for four hours while Samognatos had shadowed the warband and eventually returned proclaimed the party out of range of danger.

At an abandoned (or destroyed) Roman depot high up the Rhodanus, where the Roman supply road veered off east to Vesontio, Caesar despatched riders to the winter quarters in that important town, that Roscius and Trebonius should bring their legions to Agedincum with all haste. The command party watched the couriers leave, then departed the river trail and cut west and a little north for a further two and a half days, riding harder than ever, with the welcome presence of the main winter camp for six legions looming ever closer at the end of the ride.

A little more than twenty miles from the Rhodanus, they reached the second of the winter quarters: a fortress for the Eighth and Eleventh legions positioned on a hill near a sleepy, peaceful oppidum that went by the name of Alesia. Caesar had issued orders to Fabius and Cicero to strike camp and move at speed to Agedincum, and the riders had left the camp in sudden throes of activity, skirting the huge upturned-boat shape of Alesia and riding for Agedincum.

‘There she is,’ Priscus sighed with audible relief, pointing ahead as the party rounded a small stand of trees and the massive six-legion complex that sprawled on the edge of the native town of Agedincum came into view. Three times the size of the town it hugged, the winter camp gave off the smoke of dozens of cooking fires and rang with the noises of a hundred blacksmiths and armourers hammering metal upon metal. The distinctive sounds of parade marches and weapon drills echoed across the landscape.

Fronto rubbed his rump and winced. There was precious little skin left around his coccyx if he was any judge and he had a horrible feeling that all the bruises had joined up and left him with a blue-grey backside. ‘I shall be glad to rest. Preferably sink into a nice warm bath.’

‘I offered to tend to your pains,’ muttered Masgava, riding along close behind.

‘Thank you, but one thing I try not to do is spend my evenings with a large, scarred Numidian professional killer rubbing oil across my buttocks.’

Palmatus snorted laughter, but Masgava merely shrugged. ‘You’d have lived a sore and unpleasant life in the arena if you can’t let another man massage you.’

Fronto turned to him. ‘It’s not that I…’ he rolled his eyes. ‘Priscus, just try and talk sense into him.’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ grinned the prefect. ‘I think you ought to give it a try. Let Masgava get himself all oiled up and ready, and you can strip down to your bare blue arse and let him have some fun.’

Fronto turned his back pointedly on the pair of them and opened his mouth to address Caesar before spotting the wicked grin on the general’s face.

‘It really isn’t funny.’

‘If you say so, Marcus.’

Fronto cleared his throat noisily. ‘What’s the plan now, sir? The troops will have all-but exhausted their winter stores, and are probably wondering when more will be forthcoming. I’m quite surprised Labienus hasn’t been tempted to bring the legions south when the supply lines were cut.’

Caesar shook his head. ‘They had adequate supplies to last until spring. Labienus is too sensible to strike such defensive camps and risk his forces, given what happened the winter before. Besides, even if the supplies ran low, they could get by. The Eighth and Eleventh had supplemented by foraging the local area and impounding what they could get away with.’

‘Easier for two legions to survive like that than six, general.’

‘Supplies will not be an issue, Marcus. As soon as all ten legions have met up, we will be moving west. There is a high probability from local rumour that the Carnutes are now eating out of Vercingetorix’s hand. Our supply hub at Cenabum is deep in Carnute lands — their commercial centre, in fact — and we must secure it and subdue the Carnutes first. Then we will turn towards the true enemy.’

‘That doesn’t resolve supply issues, general.’

‘It partially resolves them, Fronto. Cenabum is a major supply hub, and I feel sure that the stores still held there will keep us in the field for a time. But in addition, en route to Cenabum — perhaps halfway — is the Senone city of Vellaunoduno, which is renowned for its wheat production and stacked granaries.’

‘And what if the Senones are also allied with Vercingetorix,’ Fronto queried. ‘They are apparently at peace here in Agedincum, but there are six legions to consider here. Not so further west.’

‘The Senones are nominally still our allies, but if they baulk at supplying us, I will not hesitate to grind them beneath our heel on the way. Never fear, Fronto. I will feed the legions on the march. Vercingetorix thought to raise Gaul while keeping the army cut off. We have beaten him, though. In a couple of days we will have all ten legions combined and under my control. The Arvernian rebel tried, and he has failed. Now we begin the task of making him pay for his temerity.’

‘I only hope the legions are ready to move quickly, then. It can take a while after they’ve spent months languishing in winter quarters.’

* * * * *

‘Will the legions be ready so soon? ’

Marcus Antonius, along with Labienus the most senior of Caesar’s officers at Agedincum, idly scratched himself as he gulped down the last of his wine by the flickering firelight before replying.

‘The commanders here aren’t daft, Fronto. They’ve known trouble is afoot. A Boii scout called Bennacos arrived over a month ago bearing Cita’s family seal. He’d witnessed the downfall of Cenabum and his news put the whole army on high alert. Labienus has made no overt move without a missive from Caesar, but the winter quarters’ defences have been strengthened, and the legions have been ready to deploy for weeks now, their spring training schedule implemented early, deep in winter. Any one of those men out there can march out tomorrow as fit and ready and equipped as if they hadn’t been called to action weeks before the campaign season even begins.’

Fronto nodded and drained his own wine cup as the senior officer refilled his and then passed over the jar. ‘This changes things a little, though,’ the legate grumbled. ‘The scout’s news, I mean. If the Carnutes have flattened Cenabum and everything in it, we can hardly use it as a supply base now.’

‘It changes nothing, Fronto. The grain will still be there, just feeding the rebels instead of us. Now we have extra incentive to take the place, for Nemesis watches us with a blazing eye. Cita and the garrison should not go unavenged.’

Nodding his acceptance of the comment, Fronto bent to rub his knee and flexed his leg a few times.

‘Joint trouble?’

‘Old knee injury. Started to play up again when the weather’s cold and wet.’

‘That,’ Masgava grunted, ‘is because you don’t train as much as you should any more. It is weakening again.’

‘Can you not lay off me for even one evening,’ sighed Fronto, but he noted Palmatus nodding his agreement and made a mental note to make time for a little more exercise. If it didn’t strengthen his knee at least it would diminish Masgava’s nagging.

‘The Tenth have been itching to head over to Cenabum for the past few weeks and teach the Carnutes a lesson,’ Atenos, the huge, muscular centurion said with an ominous tone. Carbo tried to argue the commanders into letting us go three times, but Labienus was having none of it.’

Carbo nodded. ‘Kept bringing up phrases like ‘duty’, ‘chain of command’, ‘better safe than sorry’ and so on. I understand why he’s not moved, and maybe he was sensible, but the men would appreciate the chance to use their winter training to avenge the Cenabum garrison. Some of them were our own lads, after all.’

Antonius chuckled. ‘At least the Tenth did as they were told,’ he snorted, sipping his wine. ‘Varus had rather more trouble.’

Fronto frowned as he turned his gaze on the cavalry commander. ‘What with?’

Varus sighed as he scratched his head. ‘We’ve got a new unit of German auxiliary cavalry. Drawn from three different tribes, but all trained up by the best officers we’ve got and equipped with the top gear they can draw. They look like a Roman unit, though bigger and hairier. But… well, you can take the warrior out of Germania, but you cannot take Germania out of the warrior, apparently. No matter how much we try and train them, they’re more or less primitive head-hunters with an overwhelming thirst for blood and little interest in authority.’

‘They sound delightful,’ Fronto muttered.

‘They’re bloody dangerous,’ Atenos noted.

‘And possibly just as much to us as to the enemy,’ added Carbo.

‘It seems,’ Varus said with a quirky smile, ‘that one of your men, who had a cousin killed at Cenabum and had taken it rather badly, was mouthing off about the need for revenge. He was rather steamed, you see — barely able to stand, and angry-drunk. And he happened to be near a few of the German cavalry.’

‘For whom angry-drunk is the normal state,’ chuckled Atenos.

‘Indeed, Varus acceded. ‘Well about two dozen of the Germanics decided to try out their new horse kit on the Carnutes in revenge, despite Labienus’ orders to the contrary. My boys had to chase them down over eight miles from here to stop them, and two regular cavalry troopers were wounded bringing them back in. They’re rabid. Hard to contain, but I can’t wait to see what they do when they’re given free rein on a battlefield.’

‘I can,’ shuddered Carbo. ‘I hope they’re nowhere near me at the time. I foresee them being a little indiscriminate.’

The tent fell silent for a moment as Antonius topped up his wine again, tipping the jug upside down to drain the last few drops. ‘Shall I get another?’

‘I think we ought to call it a night now,’ Fronto murmured, with a hint of regret. ‘We move out to Vellaunoduno early in the morning.’

‘Besides,’ Palmatus added, nudging Masgava, ‘our unit is dangerously undermanned. We need to go through the Tenth’s records tonight and see which of Carbo’s best men we can purloin.’

Chapter 5

Close to Aedui lands, by the river Liger.

Vercingetorix wiped the chill drizzle from his face and watched the lead elements of the other army break off from the main force, as they descended from the low hillside and the protection of the trees that covered it.

‘Do we sound the carnyx?’ Vergasillaunus asked quietly. Behind them the Arverni and their allied forces spread out across the plain and back as far as the river, where they were still funnelling across the bridge in the miserable damp blanket of grey.

The Arvernian king shook his head. ‘They are riding out to talk, whoever they are. Besides, while they are a large force, we are larger by far. They cannot think to attack us. Wait until we can identify their insignia.’

The two men sat on their heavy steeds at the head of the vast sprawl of warriors, watching intently. ‘What standards do you see?’ the king murmured to his cousin, a man renowned for, among other things, impressive eyesight. Vergasillaunus squinted into the obfuscating mist, shaking his head. ‘Just the usual boars, I think… though… wait.’ He rubbed his eyes and squinted more. ‘Crosses and the one-eyed head.’

‘Cadurci!’

Despite the realisation that the approaching army was a force of allies rather than enemies, they were equally unexpected, and their arrival could portend nothing good. The Cadurci were supposed to be busy freeing the tribes of Roman Narbonensis now.

‘Come,’ the king said, and kicked his horse into motion, trotting down the sodden slope with his cousin quickly coming alongside, some of the nobles and chiefs of his army following close behind, uninvited. Some quarter of a mile away, as the two groups of riders converged on a small stand of trees, the opposing commander and his companion rode ahead to meet them. The fine, cold drizzle filtered down from the leaden clouds above creating a grey world that chilled the bones, and the general atmosphere matched the mood of Lucterius of the Cadurci, judging by his expression.

‘Narbo remains unconquered?’ Vercingetorix was keeping a tight control of his temper, his cousin realised. The king was not a man given to outbursts or fits of uncontrolled rage, but the two things he despised, even above failure, were treachery and cowardice. That the Cadurci might be here, apparently unharmed, smacked of one of the other.

Lucterius bowed his head, but his eyes when he straightened again showed signs of neither treason nor fear. The leader of the Cadurci simply sighed.

‘My king, I bring dire news.’

‘Go on.’

‘Despite all our precautions and every care that we all took, something has gone wrong. We arrived in the Roman province to find Caesar there, mobilising the local garrison and with what appeared to be two well-equipped legions. They were already moving north when we came across them in the foothills.’

‘You fought them?’ Vergasillaunus frowned. The Cadurci and their allies looked like a strong, untouched army.

‘No. Even strong as we were, we would almost certainly have lost to ten thousand Roman legionaries. I decided it would be better to bring the army north once more and add our strength to yours, making sure that you had all the information. We would be no use to you spread across a southern hillside feeding the crows.’

Vercingetorix nodded slowly. He did not look happy, but the spark of anger had gone from his eyes. ‘You erred towards caution,’ the king murmured. ‘This is not a trait of prime value in a warrior, but it is essential in a leader. You did the right thing. I am surprised that Caesar is so well informed and so quick to move. I would give a gold torc to find out how he learned of our activities and how he reached Narbo without us finding out. The Romans do not like to begin their wars before their festival of weapons, and that is still months away. Caesar is as slippery and unpredictable as ever.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Did the Romans see you?’

‘As far as I can tell they were not aware of us at any point. As soon as we found them, we returned through the hills ahead of them. We moved west, past Albiga, and returned by the low, easy route, but word from the mountain tribes is that Caesar moved east and north, to cross the Cevenna passes.’

Vergasillaunus shrugged. ‘Then we have nothing to worry over, and the man is a fool. He cannot hope to cross those mountains in winter. His army will be bogged down in snow and forced back to Narbo.’

The king fixed him with an appraising look and shook his head. ‘He will have succeeded. A man who has managed to move so early and in force when we have done all we can to prevent it is not a man to be put off by a mountain pass, even in winter. No, Caesar did not stop, nor did he pause. If you saw him make for the Cevenna, he will be past it now.’

‘But that would put him in our own lands?’ murmured Vergasillaunus.

‘Yes. There are easier routes to the north and to his army. If he attempted the Cevenna passes in winter, then the Arverni have been his target from the start. He has taken a force of two legions to ravage our lands while we tarry here.’

A voice from behind burst out, carrying tones of panic. ‘Two legions at work in our land?’

Vercingetorix turned a rather dangerous look on the outspoken man, a Vellavi chieftain of the oppidum of Condate, subservient to the Arverni, but whose town lay at the northern end of the main passes across that range. Probably the place where Caesar descended the mountains. Condate was likely gone already. The chieftain apparently failed to notice the nuances in his king’s expression, since he spoke again without pause.

‘All out warriors are in the north, here to fight for you. Our people are undefended!’

Vercingetorix closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, the steel they carried made the chieftain recoil. ‘Caesar is trying to manoeuvre us. He is poking a sore tooth to see how we will respond.’

‘But we must go to their aid?’ the man pleaded, raising mumbles of agreement from some of the other leaders around him.

‘Abandon our gathering of armies here? Leave the Aedui to slide back into their Rome-ish ways? That is exactly what Caesar wishes. Can you not see?’

‘But…’

‘No.’ Vercingetorix turned to Lucterius. ‘When was this? When you last saw their army?’

‘Fifteen days. Perhaps sixteen.’

Vercingetorix shook his head again. ‘Caesar is not there anyway, now.’

‘He must be…’

‘No. Caesar has left men there to tempt us south, to break off our work here. And you know what will happen if we race to Arverni lands to help our uncles and cousins defend their farms?’

Vergasillaunus nodded. ‘While we are there, Caesar will rejoin his armies and untie all the bonds we have formed with the northern tribes, weakening us.’

The king ran his fingers down his moustaches, squeezing out trickles of rainwater. ‘Caesar is a clever man, so we must be more so. Whatever he wishes us to do, we avoid doing it. We must not fall into his traps. If he is trying to draw us south, then we must stay here and continue our work, but keep careful watch on what happens around us. The Aedui, I am convinced, are the key to power in the region. They are the largest tribe, even without the numerous others under their protection, and their support may tip the scales for either Caesar or us. We must have the Aedui, so I cannot abandon this campaign, even for the sake of our villages. There is more at stake here than our own tribe; we have to look at the whole picture, and not just see a corner that is important to us.’

He turned to the outspoken chief from Condate.

‘Take your men back south… no more than a thousand, though. Protect who you can, save who you can, and take stock of what you find there, then send a messenger to us with your answers. You will not find Caesar there, of that I am sure. I doubt, in fact, that you will find a solid veteran force there. This army in our lands is a phantom Caesar raises to panic us. Old men or young recruits in shiny armour.’

As the relieved-looking chieftain nodded and turned to ride back to his own warriors, the king sighed. ‘Settle your men in with the army, Lucterius. We have brought the Bituriges to our standards and have harried other small tribes. Now we go to destroy the Boii at Gorgobina and bring the Aedui’s nerves to new heights. Soon Caesar will be upon us, and I want that troublesome tribe with us and not with him.’

* * * * *

Vellaunoduno was unimpressive, to Fronto’s eye. In the six years he had fought through Gaul, he had seen the most powerful fortresses the tribes had to offer, from the towering chiselled mountain of Aduatuca, through the treacherous coastal strongholds of the Veneti, to the swamp-ridden islands of the Menapii. Vellaunoduno had walls of reasonable quality, but it sloped gently downhill from north to south, with even the north only protected by a gentle grassy incline, and the south gate undefended by any natural obstacle.

‘We could take that place in an hour,’ he muttered, shivering in the cold breeze.

Carbo, the primus pilus of the Tenth legion and trusted officer of Fronto’s, grinned. ‘Give the word, legate and I’ll turn the place upside down for you. It’d be a damn site better than this.’

He indicated the work going on all around them, as legionaries from eight legions busily cut turf sods, worked on taking the ditch down to at least waist level and used the soil to create the rampart behind it. Atop the completed sections of the mound, other legionaries were using timber and wattle to weave strong fences and nailing them in place to posts. Here and there, men were even constructing low towers to sit above the fence, affording a good view of the oppidum and its surroundings. The work was going on in a wide circle that surrounded Vellaunoduno, leaving just under a scorpion-shot between the two opposing walls.

Fronto sighed. ‘No. Sadly, we cannot. Caesar gave his orders. Circumvallation. He wants the oppidum undamaged for its stores.’

‘I can’t help but wonder what the Gauls are thinking, sir. They’re Senones, and that means they’re theoretically our allies, yet we pitch up here with eight legions and build siege works? And what happens when the bloody-minded buggers inside decide it’s better to burn the granaries than let us have the grain?’

Fronto nodded. The same thoughts had occurred to him. ‘There are rumours that the western Senones are sending warriors south to Vercingetorix, and when we arrived, they shut the gate. No welcome party generally means you’re not welcome. And as to the granaries, we’ll have to trust to their sense of self-preservation. Currently we have no reason to put them to the sword. We are not officially at war with them, after all. Caesar will grant them favourable terms in return for supplies.’

He desperately hoped so. When they had arrived at Agedincum two days ago, Fronto had gone with Priscus to examine the supply situation at the main camp. Labienus had showed them the granaries and storehouses, and they had been pitifully thin. Normally, when faced with such an issue, the commanders of the winter quarters would rely upon sending out centuries of men and foraging in the surrounding lands, but it seemed a Boii scout who had been working with Cita at Cenabum had survived to bring the legions news of the Carnute attack a few months back, and in response, Labienus had reined in all such forage parties, keeping the legions together and on high alert. The result had been low stores, but six well-prepared and alert legions, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Indeed, Labienus had told them of reports from native scouts of Carnute and Parisi warbands prowling the region in the hope of picking off any such small extended foray.

Caesar had rallied from the news, sending out messengers to the Aedui at Bibracte and the Boii at Gorgobina, reminding them of their allegiance and asking that they send whatever supplies they could spare. Still, Fronto had noted, Caesar had lost no time in fielding the army and making for the grain-filled oppidum of Vellaunoduno, leaving only two legions at Agedincum in reserve.

The centurion nodded wearily. ‘The lads are itching for a fight, sir.’

‘I suspect that by the autumn they’ll be sick of the sight of blood, Carbo. Somewhere south of here is an army of Gauls bigger than anything we’ve faced in this land so far. And some time in the next few weeks or months we’re going to have to bring them to battle.’

‘It’ll be a big one, sir.’

Fronto regarded the bald, shining pink pate of the stocky centurion and nodded. ‘It’ll end all this and settle the place one way or another, that’s for sure. By the time this season’s over half the population of Gaul of fighting age will be howed up in burial mounds, be they Gaul or Roman.’ He shrugged off the depressing thought and nodded to the growing rampart. ‘How long will the circumvallation take?’

Carbo shrugged. ‘The mound and ditch will be in place by nightfall… benefit of eight legions’ manpower. Another day for the fences, towers and gates. Then there’s the lilia pits and the like. Two days, though in all.’

A nod.

‘Doesn’t look like much, does it?’ muttered Palmatus, arriving at the completed mound that overlooked the south western corner and standing beside his commander. The singulares remained standing at ease close to the rear of the slope, ready to move should their commander require it, and watching the rest of the army labouring with the satisfaction of the excused-duty.

‘No,’ the legate replied. ‘But from here you can see why it’s important.’

‘Why’s that?’

Fronto pointed over the enemy ramparts at the sloping town within. ‘See up near the top, past that two-storey place with the red tiled roof? There are four extremely long roofs?’

‘I see them?’

‘They’re granaries.’

Palmatus whistled through his teeth. ‘They’re bigger than the ones in a legionary fortress.’

‘That they are. Vellaunoduno’s pretty much at the centre of the Senones’ grain-farming region, like Cenabum for the Carnutes. As such, it’s a hub, which supplies other towns within the tribe. There’ll be enough grain in those four buildings to keep us in the field for a month or more.’

‘Hopefully it won’t take that long to finish the job,’ Palmatus shrugged. ‘The general word is that the Gallic army is massing less than a hundred miles south of here. A bit of careful manoeuvring and we could bring it to open battle in days. Weeks at most.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘Remember: we’ve met their leader. He and Caesar might well be a match for one another. Neither of them is going to commit on unfavourable ground, so there might be a lot of dancing around before anyone gets to bloody their sword. No idea what Vercingetorix is doing down there, but he’s close to the Aedui, and after last winter I’m not quite sure how far I trust our old friends any more. And as for Caesar: well he’s concentrating on breaking off the man’s northern allies and containing him. Could be a while before we put sword to throat in open field.’ The pair fell silent and perused the oppidum’s walls, pulling their cloaks tighter for warmth. None of the men were used to campaigning so early in the year. It was unnatural.

‘Look at that pair. Daring buggers, eh?’ Fronto and Palmatus followed Carbo’s pointing finger and picked out two men standing atop the walls of Vellaunoduno with their fists on their hips, regarding the Roman engineers sealing them in. The rest of the warriors atop the walls had either pulled back down inside the city or were crouched behind the parapet, ever since the Roman artillerists had loosed a hundred pot-shots at the walls just to determine range and the position for the line of the ditch. The Roman defences were safely out of Gallic bowshot, but a scorpion was still accurate enough with a good artillerist behind it to pick a man from that wall.

‘They’re just watching us, the cheeky bastards,’ Palmatus said.

‘Let ‘em,’ Fronto said. ‘Might help with lowering their morale.’

‘An extra corpse or two would help more,’ Palmatus snorted.

‘They’re wise to us, though, since the test volleys’ replied Carbo. ‘Any time the crews move the scorpions, the buggers go into hiding.’

Palmatus gave a nasty grin and turned, looking back down the earth bank to where Fronto’s bodyguard were assembled, supping from water flasks, exempt from all the manual labour going on around them.

‘Arcadios? Get up here.’

The swarthy Cretan scrambled up the bank, his bow across his back and a leather case of arrows at his waist. He saluted Fronto and Carbo and nodded to Palmatus. ‘Sir?’

‘I’ve seen you put a point through a torc at almost a hundred paces. Could you hit a man on that wall?’

Arcadios narrowed his eyes and squinted through the dreary air. ‘It’s more like a hundred and sixty paces. Maybe a hundred and seventy.’ He sucked a finger and held it aloft. ‘And there’s a more-than-moderate breeze. It’s possible, but I’d have to be very lucky.’

‘Be lucky, then,’ grinned Palmatus.

The three Roman officers stood and held their breath as Arcadios tested the wind once more, took a long moment to examine the shot, then bent forward, nocked an arrow, and slowly straightened, releasing the shaft as he reached the apex in a smooth move and with no pause. His aim had already taken place before he reached for the arrow.

‘Nice shot,’ whispered Fronto as they watched the arrow arc up into the air, on target for the two men, who might well be expecting pot-shots from the scorpions, but would not be anticipating an arrow.

Then, just past the apex, as the shaft began its descent and picked up speed, a sudden gust wafted it and the missile moved slightly off-target. The three officers sighed with regret as the arrow passed between the two Gauls and plummeted out of sight within the town behind them.

‘Pretty good,’ Fronto smiled. ‘They might not be hurt, but I’ll bet they both shat themselves!’

The four Romans on the rampart laughed.

* * * * *

Cavarinos saw the arrow only as it plummeted out of the misty grey, and he was suddenly grateful for the chill wind he had been complaining about all morning and which might well have been the only reason the shaft passed half an arm’s length from his head rather than straight through his eye. Damn, that was lucky!

The arrow thudded into the compacted earth of the street behind them.

As Critognatos turned to look back at the fallen missile, Cavarinos was impressed at the lack of concern on his brother’s face, but then put that down not so much to implacability and strength of character as to lack of imagination and not being bright enough to panic.

‘Our timing leaves a great deal to be desired,’ he sighed as he watched the Romans working hard. Critognatos had apparently been quite successful at stirring the local tribes and had been at Vellaunoduno for several days. Cavarinos had arrived late last night from his foray into the Carnute druid woods. And this morning the assembled might of Rome had hoved into view through the trees. Cavarinos had cursed himself for agreeing to break his fast on a hearty meal before they left. Had they just departed at dawn they would have been long gone before Caesar had arrived.

‘The Senones are cowards,’ Critognatos spat. ‘They took their oath to Vercingetorix, but the moment Caesar appears, they all quiver and shake.’

‘They hold for now. But they must capitulate soon, brother. They will all die otherwise.’

‘At least they will die for a cause.’

‘And we will die with them,’ reminded Cavarinos. ‘A peaceful solution that sets us on our way is advantageous.’

‘Coward!’

Cavarinos rounded on his brother. ‘Don’t be a fool. You know I’m no coward. But the answer is not always in drawing a sword and running naked, screaming, at the enemy!’

‘You have that curse?’

‘Yes.’ Cavarinos took a step back, his eyes narrowing. The value in the tablet was as a talisman to rally the men. Not in using, only to discover it was as useless as he felt certain it was. ‘I don’t know when I should use it, but the druids said ‘when the boar and the eagle were struggling with a sword or something. I don’t think this counts.’

Critognatos slammed him in the shoulder and pointed out over the no-man’s-land.

‘Do you see a figure over there, behind their defences, on a white horse, with the red cloak?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s almost certainly Caesar. That’s what they say: he wears a red cloak and rides a white horse.’

‘And if it isn’t? If we waste this thing? No. The value of this curse is in showing it to the army and carrying it with us.’

‘Use it on Caesar!’

‘No.’

‘Then use it on one of them!’ He pointed at the small knot of Romans on the mound and, ignoring his brother’s continued badgering, Cavarinos peered at the men. A large figure had now joined them: a big, ebony-skinned man. Cavarinos felt a jolt. The clever Roman from Bibracte last year. He had had a black-skinned warrior with him. It was too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.

‘We have to get out of Vellaunoduno and back to the army. We cannot do that by attempting to use the walls to defeat an army more than forty thousand strong with a few thousand frightened locals. We have to see this to a peaceful solution.’

‘There will be more than a few thousand, brother.’

‘What?’

‘My embassy to the tribes was successful. Upwards of ten thousand warriors are leaving their lands and heading south for the army.’

‘They’re hardly likely to all come through here, you idiot. And even if they did, and they all got the urge to fight straight away, that would still only make us one to about three or four in numbers. Nowhere near enough.’

‘How the king ever came to put you in command of warriors I will never understand,’ Critognatos spat and, turning, stomped off back down the slope and into the town.’

‘Idiot.’

Cavarinos allowed his gaze to linger for a long moment on the small group of Romans, including the dark-skin and the officer atop the wall, and then the figure with the white horse and the red cloak crossed the camp and came to join them. Despite his personal misgivings and his flat disbelief that the burden he carried held any true power, Cavarinos found himself fingering the edges of the curse tablet in the leather case at his belt.

‘No. A peaceful solution, for now…’

* * * * *

The sanctuary of the god Borvo and the goddess Damona thrummed with the collective worry of two hundred throats. Consisting of a portico of heavy timber posts supporting a sloping tiled roof, only one side of the square structure rose above a single storey, and it was from the balcony on this section that the magistrate of Vellaunoduno, accompanied by the most notable residents and a white-clad druid, had asked the crowd to hush.

Cavarinos and Critognatos sat on the driver’s seat of a large cart at the far end, above the heads of the crowd. The pair had hardly exchanged a civil word since their argument on the walls, yet sat together largely for the security that granted among a foreign tribe.

‘The Romans have made no demands,’ the magistrate repeated. ‘They arrived and besieged us. We have the choice now.’

He paused for a moment as the general hum of the crowd intruded, and when it subsided, he continued. ‘We can see this as an open act of war and assume that their commander has nothing in mind but the conquest of our city and the impounding of our grain to feed their hungry legions. Or we can see it as a cautious reaction from a people who now know that much of the land has risen against them and cannot simply presume us to be allies. After all, while they cannot know that we have taken the oath for the Arverni king, they can hardly be sure we have not.’

Again, the hubbub arose. Cavarinos sat patiently. Even over the din in this place, he could hear the distant sounds of hammering as legionaries worked in the darkness by the light of flaring torches to complete the barrier surrounding the oppidum. The magistrate waited for the lull once more, and then spoke again.

‘You people are the nobles, the land owners, the free artisans and workers. It is to you that I turn, for the way forward to me is clouded and obscure. Segomaros here represents the druids, and it is his council that we defend this place to the last and deny the Romans any succour, including our grain.’

‘He would torch the grain?’ one of the crowd called out incredulously.

‘Would you feed the Romans?’ shouted another with an audible sneer.

‘Tarvos here,’ the man went on, indicating a warrior who physically lived up to his name — the bull — ‘would see us come to terms with the Romans and buy passage from the city with our grain. He would see our warriors join the Arverni army at any cost.’

‘And what about the children?’ shouted a woman. ‘If the Romans take our grain and the warriors leave to join the Arverni, the rest will starve!

‘And this is what we are here to debate,’ announced the magistrate patiently.

Cavarinos listened to half a dozen more shouts and finally rose from the wagon seat, towering above all, bar those few on the balcony.

‘If you fight here to the death, what fate do you expect for your children? Anything better than starvation? Romans are not like the tribes across the Rhenus. They will take slaves when they win a battle, yes, but they are almost always open to negotiation. They might be the enemy but they value life and they understand the value of life. Submitting to them might be ignominious for you, but you would be alive and, I daresay, free into the bargain; and few Romans I have met will watch the children starve if you have willingly aided them.’

A murmur of agreement and support sussed across the crowd, and Cavarinos could see the magistrate nodding his appreciation of the comment, albeit coming from a foreigner. Sometimes it took an outsider to bring sense.

His heart sank as the bench weight shifted, warning him that Critognatos had risen behind him.

‘Many hundreds — thousands even — of warriors of the Meldi, the Parisi and the Catelauni tribes will be passing here as they rush to join the Arverni army. They will not pass by here and see you beneath the Roman yoke. You need only hold until they come.’

Idiot!

With a malicious streak flashing through his heart, Cavarinos gave the side of the cart a good hard thump with his heel and was rewarded by the sound of his brother falling with a crash behind him as the cart shuddered. Despite the gravity of the situation, those nearby chuckled at the sight and Cavarinos smiled. Good. His brother’s credibility was waning.

‘Those warriors will not pause on their journey to engage an army many times their size, even for your grain. Your only hope of survival is to parlay. I know these Romans. I have met one of them myself before now, and he is a reasonable man. Favourable terms are within your grasp. I beg you for the love of reason not to throw away your lives and those of your families for a prideful gesture.’

There was a strange silence, and Cavarinos could feel the hearts of the crowd wavering. He almost had them. After all, no one ever wanted to fight for no reason. A voice cut across the crowd amid the distant sounds of hammering and sawing and commands called in Latin. The druid on the balcony.

‘Conciliation with the Romans? A strange stand to hear taken by one of Vercingetorix’s Arverni?’

I wonder how well connected the druids truly are? He wondered.

‘You know me? You know who I am?’

‘You are Critognatos of the Arverni.’

Hmmm…

‘Not quite, druid. I am Cavarinos of the Arverni.’ He was able to see the look of surprise pass across the druid’s face even at this distance. He could almost imagine the facial tic appearing on the man’s eye. ‘I am on my way back to the king with a prize.’ He tapped the leather bag at his belt meaningfully.

The crowd were looking back and forth between foreigner and druid, and Cavarinos, finding it hard not to grin, pictured the man’s brain trying to work out how he could back-track over his own advice in favour of the man who carried the curse of Ogmios. The druid might be willing to sacrifice a whole Senone town on the altar of anti-Roman pride, but his sacred nick-nacks were another thing entirely.

‘You know one of them?’ the druid said, his face shrewd and calculating.

‘I believe so. I believe I met one alongside Vercingetorix last year.’ If only I could remember his name…

‘You would be willing to mediate on behalf of these people?’

Cavarinos smiled beatifically. ‘I would.’

‘You cowardly traitor,’ snarled Critognatos behind him, at about knee level on his way back up. Cavarinos turned to look across the crowd, using the movement to mask a sharp kick backwards into his brother’s belly, keeping him down.

‘I will speak with them at dawn, if you wish it,’ he announced.

* * * * *

Fronto grinned as the dusky maiden clambered off him and began to pour him a drink of finest Opimian. ‘More wine, darling?’

He nodded happily.

‘More hairy arse, darling?’

For a moment, Fronto nodded happily, then his brow creased into a frown.

‘What did you say, my dove?’

‘I said get your hairy arse out of that bed before I throw a bucket of water over you… sir!’

Fronto’s eyes snapped open, his irises contracting at the sudden intrusion of light. Images of dusky maidens retreated into his subconscious and left him with the less-than-pretty picture of Priscus standing over him, waving a vine stick in a suggestive manner.

‘What… where?’

‘You’re needed. One of the Senones has come out the city alone asking to speak to the Roman commander with the black-skinned friend. Didn’t take an awful feat of deduction to work out who that was. You’ve been chosen to parlay for some reason. Get dressed quickly. Dress uniform too, none of your fighting kit.’ Priscus sniffed. ‘At least for once you don’t smell like either an amphora or a latrine.’

‘You’re too kind, Gnaeus.’ Where were his singulares? They were supposed to be guarding his tent, not letting random folk in, even if those random folk were his friends. His gaze wandered to the tent door, where he was irked to see the grinning faces of Aurelius and Numisius, enjoying the scene.

‘Moments only,’ Priscus grunted, drawing his gaze again. ‘Get outside.’ Without a further word, the prefect retreated, leaving Fronto feeling a little confused and forlorn.

‘Dress uniform?’

He tried, without a great deal of either care or success, to think where among all the bags and boxes his best clean kit would be. He knew that almost every other officer would have ten different sets and their body slave would have it ready before they even knew they needed it. Fronto had never been a lover of having such a servant attend him in the field. They were always too active too early in the morning, waking you up before you wanted to surface.

Taking a brief sniff of yesterday’s tunic, he shrugged and pulled it on, quickly followed by his subarmalis with the leather pteruges decorated at the tips, his socks and boots. He left the twin figurines on the thongs around his neck out and in the open… if he was to parlay, a little luck might be useful. A moment later, he leaned out of the door.

‘Masgava, can you help me?’

The big Numidian nodded and entered, lifting the front and back plates of his cuirass and strapping them on. The knotted ribbon of command followed, and then the sword on the baldric. As the former gladiator unfurled the slightly creased red cloak and fastened it around his commander’s shoulders, Fronto pulled on his helmet, noting with dismay the way the crest sagged as though it needed the attentions of the dusky maiden from his dream.

He might not look like a consul or a hero, but he did look like a soldier, and that would have to be enough.

By the time he was stretching his legs outside, Masgava had his singulares formed up and at attention. Ten, including the officers. More than enough.

‘Come on then, lads; let’s go see what the local nutcase has to say.’

Despite the immense size of the Roman camp, the journey was straight and quick, the Tenth being one of the legions closest to the south gate of the oppidum. In a few long moments, he was passing through the opening in the half-formed wattle fence.

His interest was immediately piqued. He had been at many such parlays in the past six years, and they were always conducted by some high noble festooned in gold accoutrements, surrounded by his best warriors and usually with a few carnyxes issuing their deflating-bovine sounds. Here, one man sat on a horse and, while he was well-dressed and well equipped — partially in stolen Roman equipment, Fronto noticed — he looked more warrior than politician. And he was alone, and unserenaded.

‘Identify yourself,’ Fronto called as he closed on the man.

‘I am called Cavarinos. I am authorised by the magistrate of Vellaunoduno to agree terms, on the condition that they are not harmful to the Senones, who are, as you know, oath-bound to Caesar, and consider this siege a breach of etiquette and a shameful act for an ally.’

Fronto grinned.

‘Alright, Cavarinos. How do you know who I am?’

‘I do not,’ the Gaul replied calmly, though Fronto thought he spotted a strange touch of recognition there. ‘You are the officer whose man almost put an arrow through me yesterday afternoon.’

Fronto’s grin became a laugh. ‘Hope you had spare trousers, eh?’

Strangely, the Gaul chuckled back with genuine humour. ‘It was a magnificent shot, given the conditions. I would know your name, Roman?’

‘My name is Fronto. Marcus Falerius Fronto, legatus of the Tenth legion. And the big dark skinned fellow you spotted was one of my two guard commanders — Masgava.’ The Numidian bowed his head. ‘And the other is Palmatus, here.’ Another nod. ‘Now the pleasantries are out if the way, shall we talk business?

‘Your general has come for the grain.’

‘Astute.’

‘I am willing to give him four parts in every five. The rest, which should fit on six carts, will remain with the citizens of Vellaunoduno.’

‘How generous of you.’

‘Yes,’ Cavarinos smiled, ‘I realise that you could take it all, but not without a fight. And it might just get burned in the process. You know how we Gauls can be when cornered. Four fifths free of trouble. And one more thing: the freedom for every citizen to leave unmolested, or stay in their homes and continue to work while Rome sets up its depot here. This is not unreasonable for a free depot full of food, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

Fronto nodded. ‘To me. Not to Caesar. He would have other conditions.’

‘Why am I parlaying with you if you cannot agree terms?’

Fronto shrugged. ‘You asked for me, not me for you. And I do not need to consult Caesar. I know what he would ask, and can agree terms. He will want your tribe disarmed. He will want to extend the four fifths to cover all other stored food and extant livestock. And he will want hostages to ensure continued peace — say four hundred…’

Cavarinos seemed to consider this, and then took a deep breath.

‘My counter offer is this: Nine tenths of all foodstuffs and livestock. Those who leave the city unmolested may keep their weapons — the countryside is a dangerous place these days — but those who choose to stay will disarm. And sixty hostages, to be chosen by the townsfolk.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I trust I have your word that they will be well-treated?’

‘Unless the Senones suddenly rise up, yes.’

Again, the Gaul pursed his lips and then straightened. ‘These terms are agreeable to you, Legatus Fronto?’

‘They are, Cavarinos.’

‘Give me long enough to explain to the magistrate, and I will be back in due course.’

Fronto nodded. ‘You have until noon. That is plenty of time.’

The man smiled and wheeled his horse, riding back towards the gate. Palmatus and Fronto exchanged a look. ‘That was painless,’ smiled Masgava, giving the signal for the singulares to stand at ease.

‘More is going on here than meets the eye,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘He was wearing a silver serpent armband. He was no Senone warrior. He was Arverni.’

Palmatus scratched his chin. ‘Important, too. I swear I saw him last year when we were in that inn at Bibracte and you talked to Vercingetorix.’

Slowly, Fronto nodded in agreement.

‘It might be a mistake letting him go, but for some reason, I’m inclined to do so anyway. Any Gaul who’s willing to negotiate peacefully is worth hanging onto. Especially if he’s one of the Arverni.’

The small group watched the figure as it disappeared inside the oppidum’s south gate. Fronto scratched his neck and shivered. ‘I think we could do with a little more information on what’s going on around us,’ he murmured, and turned to look back at his honour guard. ‘Samognatos? Have a hearty breakfast this morning. I’ve a job for you.’

* * * * *

‘We should have scraped the wall mildew and infected the wheat stores with it before we left,’ Critognatos snarled nastily. ‘We should have poisoned the wells.’

Cavarinos closed his eyes and counted to five. ‘There are still the best part of a thousand Senones staying in the oppidum. You would kill the women and children?’

His brother turned a fiery look on him. ‘I would butcher the children myself if it meant infecting ten thousand Romans with fungus-infested wheat!’

‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re in this fight for the good of our people or just to stand knee deep in Roman guts.’

The two brothers fell into an unpleasant silence as they passed, along with fifteen hundred men, women and children, along a gauntlet between lines of gleaming legionaries, their officers sitting astride their horses and watching the exodus of the fleeing tribe. Cavarinos was most profoundly grateful that he and his brother had managed to slip into the departing crowd without anyone pointing out their tribal alliance to the Romans.

Glancing back over his shoulder at the oppidum, Cavarinos could see the numerous legionaries already at work in the place, making the alterations necessary to contain a small garrison and form a supply depot. The Roman officer called Trebonius had been placed in charge of the operation and three cohorts of legionaries were in residence now.

Noting Fronto and his companions watching them pass, Cavarinos tried to shrink into himself and make himself less noticeable, wishing his brother would do the same and not sit so defiant and proud on his horse. The two dozen Arverni warriors that served Critognatos had filtered in among the Senones so as not to look too obvious. They would all separate from the column and ride ahead for Vercingetorix once they were well away from the Romans.

It was becoming a matter of urgency now to get back to the army.

Whatever Vercingetorix’s thoughts on the Aedui and the need for their support, he would now be forced to turn his attention elsewhere. While Cavarinos had been preparing to leave, he had caught a chance exchange by several legionaries unloading a cart inside the south gate. It seemed that the three cohorts were all that would remain in Vellaunoduno under Trebonius, for the army would be on the move again almost straight away, on a lightning campaign of severing the Arverni’s ties with their recent allies. Their immediate goal was Cenabum and the crushing of the Carnutes, and then they would be heading south for the Biturige towns of Novioduno and Avaricon.

Avaricon… Not more than forty miles from Gorgobina, where Vercingetorix and the army conducted a slow and patient siege.

* * * * *

Fronto and Priscus watched the rag-tag line of Senones pass, wondering how many other Arverni warriors were concealed among them. If there was one…

‘We’re going to see most of them again soon,’ the prefect muttered, ‘over the top of our shields as they run at us.’

‘You may be right, but at this precise moment they’re doing me a favour.’

His eyes picked out Cavarinos and the man who rode next to him — a man who looked so similar they could only be brothers, but who bore a full beard instead of just a moustache. Then his gaze slowly wandered back across the mass until he spotted Samognatos, a spear shouldered as he rode, his usual native kit close enough in appearance that of the Senones that he blended seamlessly with them.

‘Go careful, my friend,’ Fronto breathed.

Chapter 6

Cenabum.

Fronto stood on the low slope and looked over the Carnute city of Cenabum, images of what must have happened here to the Roman supply depot drifting unbidden and unpleasant through his mind. His singulares and their officers remained respectfully a short distance behind — along with Caesar’s own praetorians — deferring to the command party who examined the lay of the land, while the legions approached still a mile or so further back.

The winds had died down and the rain had held off for the last two days, leaving a chilly stillness that made the hair stand proud on the back of his neck, as though the world held its breath, waiting for something to happen. His gaze wandered to the command group. Almost every officer of note was present, barring the three who remained with the army to keep things moving: Labienus, Priscus and Marcus Antonius.

So far, Fronto had had little time even to exchange pleasantries with the other officers and, after only a brief reunion when they had arrived in Agedincum, the army had been mobilised immediately. They had moved without pause, securing the base at Vellaunoduno and marching straight on to Cenabum to revenge themselves for the murder of the Roman residents a few months ago and to instil in the Carnutes such a bone-deep fear of Rome that they would pull away their support for the Arverni rebel. He made a mental note to spend some time mixing with the more sociable officers the next time the army halted for more than eight hours.

He had been absent from the army entirely two years ago, and even last year had spent much of the campaigning season off in the forests with only his singulares. Much had changed in the time he’d been away, apparently.

He knew most of the legates — the calm and collected Fabius of the Eighth, insightful Rufio of the Eleventh, solid Caninius of the Twelfth, impulsive and unpredictable Cicero of the Fourteenth, and formal Sextius of the Thirteenth — as well as Trebonius of the Ninth back at Vellaunoduno. The new legate of the Seventh was a surprise, though. Lucius Julius Caesar, cousin of the general and uncle of Marcus Antonius, had apparently forsaken his quiet, senatorial life in Rome during the late autumn and had travelled north to take command of the Seventh for his cousin, mere weeks before the lines of supply and communication had been severed. Yet this Lucius Caesar had seemingly taken it all in his stride with hardly a batted eyelid. A taciturn man with stretched, aged skin and a face not given to smiling, the general’s cousin had been efficient if not strong, and Fronto was still trying to decide whether the man was a quiet stoic or just too dumb to panic. If Fronto had come from a cushy estate to this damp, cold hellhole only to discover that he was immediately cut off from civilization by rebellious barbarians, he would have been a little more vocal about his troubles.

Varus and his three cavalry wing commanders were all familiar, though it was interesting to see young Volcatius, who had commanded the bridge over the Rhenus, among them. Thinking about them and why Volcatius had been drafted in brought home once more the missing shape of Galronus in proceedings. After all these years it seemed inconceivable to be on campaign without him. Fronto hoped against hope that all was going well down in Campania.

The camp prefect stood slightly apart, as though he felt that his difference in rank made him less valuable. That Felix had been made Camp Prefect gave Fronto something of a smile. The veteran centurion deserved nothing less, though he had his work cut out with this lot.

And in addition to that motley crowd of officers on the slope, three staff officers were present, standing behind Caesar like some theatrical chorus from a Greek play. Roscius and Calenus he could understand, but how Plancus had been elevated to the staff instead of sent home with his thumb still up his arse was beyond Fronto.

Fifteen men, representing almost the entire command system of the army above tribunate level. One good ambush from an ambitious enemy and…

His eyes strayed to his singulares, standing ready for trouble only a few paces from the slope, mirrored by Aulus Ingenuus and his praetorian horse guard, who waited patiently close by, eyes on the surrounding landscape, searching for signs of danger.

‘We’re a little in the dark here,’ Caesar hummed. ‘My only officers with a working knowledge of Cenabum are both gone — Crassus in the Parthian desert, and Cita probably in one of the mass graves down there. All we know is what we can see.’

They examined the city once more. On the north bank of the wide Liger River, Cenabum itself was a heavily walled place, without the advantage of nature’s heights, but more than protected by the labours of man. The defences were thick and high, with strong towers. The only gate in the walls led out onto the perhaps thirty-pace-wide dock area that ran the full length of the town along the bank, and opened out directly opposite a strong, wide bridge that marched out across the water to what must have been the Roman trade depot on the far bank.

Little remained of that place, barring ruined sheds and a torn and fallen stockade. Half a dozen large, grassy mounds bore silent witness to the death that had been dealt here. Looking at those burials in the knowledge that they were filled with mostly Roman civilians, but also housed a man with whom Fronto had argued affably over the availability of wine for half a decade, the legate of the Tenth felt a distinct pull toward retribution, his fingers reaching up to the ivory figurine of Nemesis at his neck and playing across the cold curves. While it would be better in almost all ways to resolve the war in Gaul peacefully, the Carnutes were now another matter. They could go hang for what they did here, and Fronto would happily knot the rope for them.

Images of Cita’s obstinate, argumentative face and his ample bulk swam through Fronto’s mind, and he found himself picturing that same face slashed across and mangled by blade and arrow. He realised that his teeth were clenched and his wrist tendons taut as he gripped his patron goddess tight for, unnoticed in his mind’s gallery, that face of Cita — murdered by the Carnutes — had morphed into that of poor young Crispus, brutally dispatched by the traitor Dumnorix of the Aedui two years hence.

His attention was dragged back by a sharp snap, and he realised with some vexation that he had gripped his beloved ivory Nemesis so tightly in his anger that he had snapped off her legs below the knees, such was the delicacy of the carving. He was still staring at the broken piece in his raw palm as he realised the officers were talking again.

‘We can seal them in easily enough,’ Plancus shrugged. ‘Ship a legion across the river somewhere upstream and out of sight and they can seal off the far end of the bridge. Then we surround them here. Starve them into submission.’

Caesar shook his head. ‘The theory is good, but we are now starting to feel the pinch of time, gentlemen. Vercingetorix does not tarry, I am sure, and a siege here will take too long. Cenabum is a hub for grain the same as Vellaunoduno, and their stores would permit them to withstand a siege for months. We need to secure this city fast. They will not submit the way the Senones did, for they know we will revenge ourselves upon them and they imagine that their tribe and the Arverni will come to save them. We must be quick and efficient.’

Rufio tapped his lip, musing. ‘So we cannot afford the time to besiege them, but we will lose a lot of men needlessly storming that heavy wall. Throwing away half a legion on their defences will not send the message of Roman strength that we need the Carnutes to witness. So, we draw them out, then?’

‘Precisely. But how?’

‘Fear,’ Fronto growled, peering at the city yet seeing only mangled Romans, his fingers rolling broken ivory.

‘What?’

‘Fear will draw them out. We set up the camps around the perimeter on the north bank as though we are prepared to besiege them. We start building large engines so that they know we mean business. We set up the artillery and fire-archers and start setting fire to the place, as though we don’t care about the grain inside. In fact, if we can set fire to a granary all the better. We do everything we can to terrify them, such that they are under no illusions that their time has come.’

Caesar nodded. ‘But they must already know that we will not give them quarter, so why would they leave the city?’

Fronto pointed down at the bridge. ‘Because that will be unguarded. They will have an escape route. We don’t need the whole city to flee. If just a few panic and try to bolt across the bridge, and we are ready for them, the city is ours.’

The general nodded his understanding. ‘Then we must be careful with our positioning. Fronto, you organise a force to keep watch from a hidden point on the far bank. Whether they run or not, I don’t want them to escape. The Tenth have the bridge. The other seven legions will encamp in a semi-circle around the city, setting up a cordon of pickets with torches by nightfall to ensure nothing leaves Cenabum. I want each officer here to begin dragging all their artillery into position and start constructing ladders, vineae and even a siege tower if we can source enough timber and hide. Frighten the life from the devils. And as soon as the archers and artillery are in place, I want a constant barrage, day and night, to keep them in a state of constant nervous tension. As soon as the city gates are secured, your men can stand down and rest. The rest of the legions will move in to clear the streets.’

Fronto nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Given the width and openness of the dock area, Caesar, we might want to deploy part of the legion there to prevent any flight by water.’

‘Very well,’ the general announced. ‘Have the army hold position until Fronto’s men cross the river.’

* * * * *

It was eerie. If there was one thing in the whole of the world that was not for Fronto, it was waterborne travel. The fact that the boat upon which he sat was moored and had not moved more than a few feet back and forth throughout the day did little to improve matters. He felt faintly ill and was well aware that his skin had its usual waxy grey sheen, despite being hidden by the darkness. He tried not to listen to the rhythmic slop, slop, slop of the water being compressed between the boat’s hull and the dockside, not to breathe in too deeply the smell of dead fish that lingered unpleasantly around the dock area.

Leaving six cohorts of the Tenth with the army to help secure the upstream and downstream banks, Fronto had sent Carbo across the river with the First Cohort. The half a thousand men had crossed around four miles upstream, over a gentle rise and around the Liger’s curve, out of both sight and hearing of the oblivious city. Using two fishing boats they had found tied up to the bank, it had taken almost an hour to get the entire cohort across, and a further two for them to move into position as subtly as possible among the ruins of the destroyed Roman depot. Finally, as the sun was beginning to descend towards the horizon, a brief burst of smoke from a fire went up among the ruins… just a thin tendril, which was instantly cut off and smothered. So brief as to be considered a trick of the eye to a casual watcher in the city, but enough to let those who waited for it know that Carbo and his half thousand men were in position.

Then, as Caesar’s army began to move, stomping into view of the city and drawing the full attention of its residents, Fronto, his singulares, and the remaining three cohorts had begun their own advance. Every man had stripped off his helmet and mail, his shield and his pilum, leaving them in the legion’s support wagons, and fourteen hundred men in units of eighty, each dressed in their drab russet tunics and carrying only their blades, had moved to the river bank. Then, dropping to the reeds and the mud and the small fishermen’s trails that wove among the almost continual coverage of trees and bushes, they had moved towards the city. Each century, aware that even without their metalwork, discovery was all too likely, waited for the previous century to move to the limit of their sight before following. Thus over the succeeding three hours, as the sun sank ever westward, a third of a legion moved in small clumps, hidden by shadows and foliage, descending unnoticed upon Cenabum, whose eyes were riveted elsewhere, upon the seven legions who had begun to set up a semi-circular cordon around the city.

Fronto had been relieved to find that his assumption had been correct. As he reached the edge of the foliage and the trees gave way to the solid dock and a packed line of trade and fishing vessels, not a single soul was visible there, every last man having run for the safety of the city walls before the gate shut in the face of Caesar’s aggression. As the sun’s rays glorified the sky with a golden sheen, the first thud declared that a ballista had begun to find its range. Within a quarter of an hour that single thud had blossomed into a constant clatter and rumble of stones, bolts, arrows and slingshots, all pounding the city of Cenabum into panic. All the defenders’ attention had gone from the waterline, worried eyes turned towards this impressive display of threat.

At the edge of the dock, Fronto waited for the last tip of the sun to disappear below the horizon, leaving the entire dock area a playground for shades and ghosts and, taking a steadying breath, he had climbed from the steps at the end of the dock onto the nearest boat, risking perhaps three feet of open space. Once aboard, he scurried along, hidden by the sails and shipped oars, the coiled ropes and the numerous crates and sacks, and then took a quick jump to the next ship, his precious leather bag slung at his waist.

Behind him, he could see the Masgava following, and then Palmatus, and so on. The brief argument as to whether it was the job of the singulares to move ahead of their commander had been ended with a reference to their ranks alone, though both his officers were still unhappy with him moving out first. In truth, they could probably all have run openly down the dock, given how little attention was being paid to this side of the city, but the plan relied upon the bridge appearing clear and inviting, and so they took care, the thuds and creaks, bangs and clatters as they ran and jumped helpfully concealed by the general noise of boats moving in the current and bumping against the dock.

An hour after sundown everything had been in place. An entire cohort was concealed at the western end of the dock, just within the trees, and another at the east. The remaining cohort — on paper four hundred and eighty, though numbering perhaps three quarters of that through ongoing casualties and losses — was concealed among the thirty or so boats moored by the river’s edge.

The sound of over a thousand men making absolutely no noise was so oppressive that it made Fronto want to scream, especially given the simmering thirst for retribution that bubbled beneath the surface of his skin. Sitting in this floating hell of gut-churning sea-sickness after the tense hours of moving so carefully into position was bad enough, but sitting in the silent presence of eighteen other soldiers, each apparently suffering near-terminal flatulence, was really starting to wear on his nerves, and he had already chewed three fingernails down to the nub — something he hadn’t done since childhood.

His gaze took in his boat-full of men, their shapes barely distinct in the darkness — Masgava virtually invisible, but for when his eyes turned this way. His entire singulares unit and a contubernium of legionaries from the Tenth with their officer, and each one had found something. Some carried lengths of rope, others sacks, pieces of dried timber or lengths of sailcloth. Fronto breathed again to calm his pulsating gullet and reached down for his own burden. A misshapen globe of horseshoe fungus taken from a dying birch tree, contained in the leather bag he had now untied from his belt. If he concentrated, he was sure he could feel the faint threads of heat emanating from the bag. An old soldier’s campaign trick, and one that would shortly play an important role in events.

He swallowed the latest thick-saliva mouth of his sickness and concentrated. In the distance, muted by the natural sounds of the river and the boats, he could still hear the continual barrage of artillery and missile troops driving the defenders of Cenabum down behind their walls. Somewhere in the midst of it he could hear a roaring noise that betrayed the successful torching of at least one building, and the shouts of consternation among a civil populace desperately trying to extinguish the conflagration.

Time passed in their nerve-wracking watery tomb.

It was perhaps approaching midnight when he heard a hiss from Atenos, the hulking Gallic centurion who stood at the prow of this boat — the nearest to the bridge. Fronto glanced across to see Atenos pointing towards the city while remaining hidden behind the raised prow. His eyes tracked passed the officer and noted the city gates opening.

This was it.

He held up his arm, indicating that no one should move, though every man knew the drill from the repeated explanations before they had set off along the riverbank. Moments later, he heard the pounding of feet as they passed from the packed gravel and earth of the dock and onto the echoing timbers of the bridge. There was no small number of panicked deserters, by the sound of it. Had they overcome the gate guard in their flight, he wondered? Or had they been released to their fate by a warrior intending to close the gate after them? Either way, it would be their end.

Keeping as hidden as he could, he mimed a question at Atenos, and the big centurion flattened his palm and made calming motions, suggesting that he wait. The urge to vomit was now becoming almost unbearable, given the mix of the boat’s sloshing movement and the tension at work on his nerves. Footsteps continued to pound across the bridge. There was clearly no small number of panicked runners.

And then suddenly Atenos was motioning at him. The escapees were all out. Time to move.

Atenos reached down to the bone whistle that hung at his neck and blew three short bursts. The call was echoed up and down the dock by each centurion and, without pause, the calm night scene of Cenabum’s dock became a seething nightmare.

All thought of formation completely ignored in the circumstances, the men of the Tenth Legion poured from the boats along the whole riverfront, large forces of them closing now from each end of the dock to seal the area off. Every second soldier had his sword out ready. The rest carried their various burdens, and here and there other centurions and a young tribune burst forth from the cover of the boat onto the hard dock. As he ran, Fronto discarded the leather bag. Cupping the horseshoe fungus in both hands, he cracked it open where it had earlier been cut in half, and blew repeatedly on the core, trying to divide his attention between that task and keeping his footing.

Sure enough, the smouldering core of the fungus, which had been in a slow burn now for many hours, began to flare up, pungent smoke pouring from the odd sphere. Now, satisfied that his burden was alight, he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Across the river, Carbo and his cohort were sealing off the southern exit, cutting down the fleeing Carnutes and pushing them back across the heavy bridge towards the chaos that awaited.

Aurelius and Biorix hit the open gate as it began to move, swords raised as they crashed into the few defenders. Some quick-thinking Gaul ignored the fight and kept pushing the gate shut from close behind, using his weight against it, out of danger from the Romans. Suddenly Atenos was there, sword already coated in shimmering red as he put his shoulder against the gate and heaved it back open.

The defenders would get the gate shut… there was no doubt about that. Under normal circumstances, anyway. There were perhaps a hundred legionaries now descending upon them, but there were dozens of defenders who had the benefit of armour and defences, and all they had to do was push the gates close enough to bar them and the attack would fail.

‘Quick!’ Fronto yelled irritably, as those legionaries and singulares carrying their armfuls of combustible material threw them against whichever of the two gates was the nearest. Fronto, along with the other fire-bearing officers, waited only long enough for a supply of sailcloth, dry timber, rope and the like to pile up against the gate, then nodded to Iuvenalis, who carried the dry hay animal fodder and scattered it on the top.

With a last blow on the fungus, Fronto cast it gently into the pile.

He barely had time to recoil before the hay caught and began to roar into orange life. Everything was so dry. The benefit of such a damp, cold season was that every merchant kept his goods safe and dry and out of the rain, so that each armful purloined from the boats and cast against the gates was perfectly tinder-dry.

The flames were roaring within moments, catching the ropes that tethered the wooden posts together to form the gate leaves and turning them black as they became part of the raging inferno.

Splashes back along the bridge announced a number of bodies plunging into the river, some torn and bloody at the hands of Carbo’s men, others in a desperate bid to escape that same fate. Few would make it. Good luck to them!

The forces from either end of the dock were now converging at the gate-and-bridge area, and those men who had carried armfuls of gear to feed the fires were drawing their blades. Leaving the poor bastards on the bridge to their fate, trapped between groups of legionaries and hemmed in by the railings, he made for Atenos, who was busy hacking down a Gaul in the gateway.

Perhaps a dozen of the Carnutes had rushed into the open gateway to hold back the tide of Roman iron, others having given up trying to close a gate that was now more of a pyre than an entrance. There were shouts of natives running off to fetch water for the gates.

‘Let’s get inside and take this place,’ Fronto snarled, his eyes dancing with the anticipation of revenge. The big Gaulish centurion raised an eyebrow as his victim fell away. ‘General’s orders were to wait for the others, sir?’

‘Piss on that. Cenabum belongs to the Tenth now. Time to avenge Cita!’

With a roar, he ripped out his own glittering sword, with its decorative orichalcum hilt and Noric steel blade, and leapt for the nearest of the defenders. The man was good, but desperate. He threw his shield in the way of Fronto’s blow, but the legate saw the man’s own chop coming and his open hand shot up and caught the wrist as the blade descended, pushing it aside as he slammed the tapering point of his gladius into the man’s ribcage.

Thrust, twist, withdraw…

Even as the man fell at his feet, Fronto was running, to the urgent shouts of Palmatus nearby. Behind, he heard Atenos blowing his whistle, issuing the melee command, which would release each man from supposed formation and give him the freedom to choose a target and deal with it accordingly. The centurion, the singulares and a few legionaries were right behind him as Fronto raced into the narrow streets of Cenabum.

A Gaul came hurtling out of a side street, his weapon forgotten as he carried a bucket of water, which slopped over the side with every step. His eyes widened as he saw the Roman before him — badly-shaven, wearing only a red tunic and with a face that was a mask of furious destruction. The bucket was cast aside, sloshing across the road, but before he could raise his sword, the lunatic Roman’s gladius had slashed a deep gauge across his neck, letting out a fountain of blood and a whoosh of air in a mix of crimson froth.

‘Bastard,’ shouted the Roman at the dying Gaul as he ran on, selecting another man who had emerged from a building carrying a spear, angled ready for a thrust with all his weight. Fronto ran at the man, screaming something incomprehensible about Gauls and the Tenth.

Atenos watched Fronto use his free hand to grab the spear and rip it to one side as he delivered three quick punches of his gladius with unerring accuracy to neck, belly and groin. The spearman screamed and fell back amid a wash of blood. Palmatus and the singulares were struggling to catch up with the man they had sworn to protect, finding themselves waylaid by desperate Gauls as they followed.

A Roman arrived next to Atenos, looking haggard and panicked, his young eyes wild with his first taste of real combat. The big centurion was about to order him on into one of the buildings when he realised that the man was one of the young narrow-stripe junior tribunes of the Tenth, his white officer’s tunic exchanged for a darker red one just like the rest of the legion’s officers for this action.

‘Stop him, centurion.’

Atenos blinked in surprise. ‘Sir?’

‘He’s gone mad, man. Can’t you see that? He must be stopped!’

Atenos peered off at the shouting legate as his commander savagely ripped open a warrior who’d had the misfortune to get in his way.

‘You don’t know our legate yet, do you, sir.’

‘Centurion?’

‘That’s not madness, sir. That’s two years of frustration and the loss of a couple of good friends finding a way out. I’d sooner step in front of a ballista than try and stop legate Fronto right now.’

Another glance up the street, and he watched with interest as Fronto pommel-bashed another man and took the opportunity of a lull in opponents to put a hard, military boot into the man’s ribs half a dozen times, yelling something incomprehensible as blood slicked down his blade and ran onto the hard-packed dirt at his feet.

‘We should report to Caesar that the town is ours,’ the tribune murmured quietly, a faintly horrified tone in his voice as he watched his legate at work, a huge stone hurled by some distant Roman siege engine missing him by a matter of feet and smashing into a building nearby.

‘Why don’t you go do that now, sir? I’ve got some Carnutes to kill.’

With the wild grin of the unfettered warrior, Atenos turned, yelled some dreadful Gallic war cry that ended peculiarly with a Latin reference to the Tenth legion, and barrelled on up the street in the gory wake of his commander, men of the Tenth yelling and running after him in support.

* * * * *

Fronto looked up at the sound of his name, the first word he had heard to which he’d felt remotely inclined to pay any attention over the last hour. The faint strains of sunlight were threading their way through the weave of the inky sky, forming the earliest tapestry of morning. The streets were muddy, yet tinted red with the blood of the Carnutes, their life’s essence pooling in hollows and forming moats around cobbles where the roads had been paved. The air was still murky and indistinct in the early light, fogged with the roiling smoke from a dozen charred buildings.

His singulares sat recovering in a huddle a few paces away, one or two sporting gashes and slashes. Across the small public square, a small party of legionaries was busy leading a line of a score of roped Carnute prisoners towards the city gate, while a similar party threw ragged native corpses into a commandeered wagon. Despite their work, the dead in the square still outnumbered the living.

How many of them had he killed personally, he wondered.

A group of legionaries burst from a doorway, laughing, their arms weighed down with plunder.

And there, in the middle of the square and walking towards him, was Marcus Antonius, senior officer of Caesar’s command… and friend.

‘Don’t start with me, Antonius.’

The curly-haired officer let out a strangely carefree laugh. ‘Hardly. Caesar will do that later. He takes it personally when one of his officers disobeys direct orders, though it’s such ingrained habit with you, I doubt he’ll do more than snap at you.’

The senior officer came to a halt a couple of paces from where Fronto sat on a wide, oak bench stained with the blood of the man that had died on it. He looked at the empty seat next to the Tenth’s commander and decided against it. With a shake of the head, he produced a wine-skin seemingly from nowhere and uncorked it, proffering it to Fronto.

‘No thanks. Don’t think I really need that right now.’

Antonius laughed. ‘On the contrary, Marcus, you need this right now. Have you taken a look at yourself lately?’

Fronto shook his head and Antonius looked around for a moment until he spotted a fallen Gaul, whose shiny, well-polished iron axe had not had time to see action before his untimely death. Crouching, he picked up the weapon and held it in front of the seated officer, such that the polished head acted as a mirror.

Fronto blinked at the sodden crimson demon that looked back at him in the blade, and reached up, wordlessly, for the flask.

‘I lost control.’

‘I know. Everyone knows. Three cohorts of men watched it happen. I hear you are to thank that silver goddess around your neck that you’re alive. Apparently half a dozen times our own artillery nearly did for you before they received the order to stop the barrage.’

‘It’s not a good trait in an officer. A legate should always be in control.’

Antonius chuckled. ‘Control is not all it’s cracked up to be, Marcus. Sometimes a little wild abandon is good for a person. Besides, this has been building in you for some time. And I’ve been told you have form. Apparently something similar happened in Britannia?’

Fronto nodded, remembering his berserk madness on that distant, misty isle.

‘What happened? I only saw a small part of the action.’

Antonius wandered over to the well a few paces away, retrieved the bucket of water and flung it across the blood-slicked bench before casting it aside. He crouched and took an intact cloak from a dead native, using it to dry the bench before he sank to the wood next to the legate.

‘The rest of the Tenth followed you in. The Eighth and the Eleventh both managed to get themselves involved before it was all over — they were the two legions nearest the gate. The last resistance was about an hour ago, in some native temple. A druid was stirring them up to kill, as though they still stood some kind of a chance. Stupid.’

‘Casualties?’

‘Theirs, or ours?’ laughed Antonius. ‘No idea how many their dead number, but we’re looking at about two thousand slaves to send back to Agedincum. Maybe a hundred got away, but we’re leaving them to spread the word to the rest of the tribe. As for ours? Well, we took the Carnutes by surprise. They hardly managed to raise a sword. About two hundred dead and critically wounded, and maybe a hundred walking wounded. Negligible, though sadly most of them were your lads.’

Fronto nodded absently.

‘And now it’s time for you to get back outside, get out of that grisly tunic, have a dip in the river and clean yourself up, and I’ll send someone with fresh clothes for you.’

‘I’d rather sit for a while longer,’ Fronto muttered. ‘My legs don’t seem to work.’

Antonius chuckled again and slapped him on the knee. ‘We have to go. The men are all being pulled out. The buildings have almost all been looted now, and the last bodies are being heaped into one of the granaries we emptied. As soon as we’re finished, Caesar’s given the order to burn the place to the ground. Cenabum is gone. The depot’s personnel are avenged.’

‘And next?’

‘Next?’ Antonius breathed, rising to his feet and reaching out a hand to his fellow officer. ‘Next we move to Novioduno as planned. The rumour is that the Bituriges have forsaken their oath to both us and the Aedui and thrown in their lot with Vercingetorix. Before we march on Avaricon, which is said to be impregnable, we need to test the water, as it were. Novioduno is small and no great threat, and we can confirm the nature of their allegiance there before we move to Avaricon.’

‘No rest for the weary,’ Fronto sighed as he reached up and took the proffered hand, using it to pull himself to his feet, his gore-soaked tunic sticking, cold and unpleasant, to his skin.

‘To the river, Antonius. Then before we move on, I would like to sample a little more of that wine!’

* * * * *

The Boii oppidum of Gorgobina.

The latest assault pulled back rapidly down the gentle slope and Vergasillaunus sucked his teeth in consternation, watching the Arverni warriors and their allies as they retreated in disarray towards the large camp seething with men and animals. Without taking his eyes from the retreat and the jeering forms of the Rome-supporting Boii defenders atop the high walls, he cleared his throat and addressed Vercingetorix.

‘Why do we not commit a sizeable force and simply swamp them? It disheartens our warriors to attack again and again with no true hope of success.’

The king of the Arverni gave his cousin that usual knowing smile. ‘Gorgobina’s walls are high, for all its low slopes, and its inhabitants are fighting for their very existence. Any committed assault will cost us dearly, and I am in the process of building this army, not demolishing it.’ He saw his cousin readying to reply, and cut him off. ‘Gorgobina has only one well which, according to our sources, is not plentiful. Most of their grain is held in the farms that harvested it and are now under our control. And the oppidum is full to the brim with desperate Boii. Their food and water will not last long, and then we can simply walk into the place and claim it without risking many men. We just have to keep sending small forays to tire them out and help them lose hope.’

‘But the delay?’

‘What is a delay of a few weeks now? Caesar will take time to move with his army. The legions have been scattered in winter quarters, and getting them together and ready — let alone supplied — to move on us will take time. And we will hear from our northern allies when he starts to move.’

‘You are sure he is in the north with his army, then?’ Vergasillaunus murmured, ‘and not to the south in our homeland?’

‘I am certain of it. But Caesar believes he has plenty of time. He will be convinced he has tricked us into running south to protect our homes. He is not coming for us, and I want the Aedui behind our banner before he does. I am not yet considering time my most pressing concern. Every day we reduce the Boii, the Aedui are watching us and our men among them twist their leaders to our cause. No, Vergasillaunus, we are under no pressure here.’

He looked up once more at the walls.

Gorgobina was a small oppidum, the home of a tribe Caesar had settled here years before in the aftermath of his victory over the Helvetii. The tribe who occupied it was a small one, but loyal to both the Aedui, who sponsored them, and Rome, who had settled them with grace rather than extinguishing or enslaving them. The walls of the place were only a few years old and had been constructed with Aedui help and Roman resources. They were powerful and high and thick.

But nature had given them only a trickle of water within, and their own unpreparedness had left them short of grain — the grain which was even now being gathered by the Arverni and added to their own supplies. If the Boii had been clever, they would have torched their fields when they retreated within the walls and left nothing for the attackers. But then, they were not warriors like the Arverni, they were Roman lap-dogs.

The pair stood silent for a moment and then the king stretched. ‘Give them an hour to drop their guard and then send another small foray in from the north. Let’s keep them nervous and exhausted. We have the numbers, they do not.’

Vergasillaunusnodded and frowned as he saw a solitary warrior running towards them.

‘What’s this?’

The man closed on the pair and dropped to a knee, bowing his head before rising again. ‘There is a small column of horsemen coming in from the north, my king.’

Vercingetorix glanced at his cousin with an arched eyebrow.

‘Who knows?’ the man replied, and then turned to the warrior. ‘Any idea who they are?’

‘No. They’re not Romans, though. And they don’t look like Aedui. They will be here any moment.’ He rose and gestured to the north, where they could just make out a small party of cavalry cresting the low rise and moving down to the lower ground where the army had made camp.

The two commanders of the Arverni army waited patiently and watched as the horsemen approached, were met by a dozen spear-bearing Lemovice warriors and questioned before being permitted to proceed into the camp.

‘Friends, then,’ Vergasillaunus mused. They kept their eyes on the group as the two lead horsemen came on through the wide camp and the rest — clearly their escort — peeled off elsewhere. Vercingetorix was peering through the grey with narrowed eyes and trying to identify them when his cousin straightened with a smile.

‘Our favourite brothers return.’

The king frowned and gradually the creases around his eyes moved into a smile. But by the time the two chieftains had closed on the commanders’ vantage point, he could see the seriousness of the brothers’ expressions, and his smile had slipped away again.

‘My king,’ Critognatos said, sliding from the horse straight into a curt bow. Cavarinos simply nodded his head respectfully from the saddle.

‘You bring bad news?’

‘Not I,’ Critognatos said, earning him a cold look from the other rider. ‘Many thousand warriors are on their way from the Meldi, the Parisi and the Catelauni, and upwards of two thousand from the tiny unimportant tribes. The Carnutes and the Senones are with us still, and will send men in due course, the first moment the Romans turn their gaze away.’

‘And there lies the problem,’ Cavarinos said with a sigh. ‘Caesar is already abroad with his army. He has taken the grain stores of Vellaunoduno and moved on with eight legions to Cenabum, which I can assure you will by now be naught but bones and burned timbers… you know how the Romans hold a grudge. I wish we had got word to you faster, but we were delayed in our journey by having to avoid Aedui lands. Caesar has sent word to them, and the northern Aedui towns would sell us out to Rome in a heartbeat.’

‘The man moves with the speed and sureness of a snake,’ Vercingetorix said, shaking his head admiringly. ‘I wonder sometimes what the Romans have done that their gods gift them with such men to win their wars. Still, our own army is not led by fools. Caesar seeks to divide us from our northern allies? Let him concentrate on keeping the Carnutes and the Senones out of things. We already have many of their number with us. Plus we’ll soon have the Aedui — no matter what the Romans’ ambassadors can offer — and their numbers more than make up for the loss of any further Carnutes.’

Critognatos’ face took on a sour cast. ‘You would abandon the Carnutes and their neighbours to the Romans simply on a matter of numbers?’

‘Frankly, yes,’ Vercingetorix said, matter-of-factly. ‘We cannot afford to be sympathetic or sentimental at the cost of this war… you have seen for yourself what we are up against. Do you think Caesar would abandon pursuit of a large ally to rush to the aid of a small one?’ He rolled his neck wearily. ‘Besides, once we have the Aedui with us and we have the numbers to crush Caesar, we will move north and help our brothers the Carnutes, sure in the knowledge of our success.’

Cavarinos stirred uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘I’m afraid it might be a little more urgent than that. While at Vellaunoduno, I learned that once the Romans have destroyed Cenabum, their sights are turning to the south. Caesar seeks to enforce his alliance with the Aedui and the Bituriges. He will march upon Novioduno, and then Avaricon. And given how long we have taken to get here because of the cursed Aedui, the Romans will most likely be closing upon their first destination already.’

Vergasillaunus turned a surprised expression upon his commander. ‘Avaricon is only forty miles from here. Do we have the men yet to bring him down?’

The Arverni king affected a far-away look as he made mental calculations of strength. ‘No. I do not believe so. Not without the Aedui. Caesar has eight legions and all of them are veterans, having cut their teeth on the shields and bones of our people for years. They have no fear of us and are more than familiar with our battle skills and tactics.’ He rolled his head, his neck clicking. ‘Besides, I have no intention of rushing off to aid Avaricon and abandoning all our work here.’

‘But cousin…’ Vergasillaunus began.

‘No. Avaricon is the strongest fortress in the west. The Bituriges can hold it for many weeks. Long enough for us to raze Gorgobina, conclude matters here, enlist the Aedui, and then move west and crush Caesar against Avaricon’s walls. We stick with our plan.’

‘Unless,’ Cavarinos murmured, ‘both Novioduno and Avaricon both open their gates to him willingly. The Bituriges have long been his allies through the Aedui, and they are not yet truly bound to our cause by aught other than fear.’

The Arverni king nodded thoughtfully. ‘I agree. Both cities must be bolstered, Novioduno in strength and Avaricon in courage. Novioduno is almost twice as far away — perhaps eighty miles. We will be truly fortunate to have a force reach it before the Romans do. We will sadly be forced to sacrifice the place in order to preserve Avaricon, but it will serve a purpose in delaying Caesar.’ He turned to Vergasillaunus. ‘Lucterius frets at being here and not in open battle. Send him with three thousand cavalry to Novioduno, as fast as they can ride. He can strengthen their defences with his men, and his own courage will bring forth their own. He must hold the place as long as possible and deny the Romans their supplies even in the end. When the place falls, I trust him to burn all the Bituriges’ supplies and find a way out and back to us.’

His cousin nodded with a smile. Lucterius would relish the chance. Having been forced by expediency to abandon his attack on Narbo, he had been champing at the bit to take red war to the Romans.

‘And you two?’ the king said, gesturing at Cavarinos and Critognatos. ‘Take a couple of thousand of the best warriors you have and make at all speed for Avaricon. Help the weak Bituriges shore up their defences and prepare for Caesar. You will have plenty of time, since the Romans will be delayed by Novioduno. Hold Avaricon, whatever you do, and when we have the Aedui we will come for Caesar. If the gods are with us, we will grind the Romans to dust before its walls.’

Cavarinos looked across at his brother, whose eyes had begun to twinkle with that lust for combat that seemed to drive him above all. He sighed. After the fall of Vellaunoduno he had felt lucky to have got away without taking part in a brutal siege alongside his idiot brother. And now here he was being given a second chance. Wonderful.

‘What of the curse?’ he said quietly. ‘The army should know of it.’

‘They will soon enough. But let us finish building that army first.’

Cavarinos’ fingers crept unbidden to the leather bag at his belt which contained the tablet of Ogmios, and he chided himself for it as he realised.

Men and steel… that was what won wars.

Avaricon, then, would be the first true test of Caesar’s strength and, if things went right, his last, too.

Chapter 7

Northern lands of the Bituriges.

The oppidum of Novioduno was perhaps the oddest Fronto had seen in his time in Gaul. Less than four hundred paces across — little more than an overgrown village, really — Novioduno nestled defensively in a fork in the river, the landward approach obstructed by a canal linking the two waterways and effectively turning the place into an island, reachable only via its northern or southern bridges. Within this artificial island, the narrower, shallower channel to the north was further bolstered by a semi-circular earthwork, which contained the inhabited area and whose ends butted up against the bank of the southern channel.

Had there been a high wall of the usual form, with towers and a strong garrison atop it, the place might have posed something of a problem for the Roman forces. However, instead of the heavy timber-and-stone rampart system endemic of Gallic oppida, this place had apparently been considered so protected by nature that, barring the canal and the earthwork, the Bituriges’ only further concession to protection was a palisade fence of ageing timber.

Likely in their centuries-long disputes with their neighbouring tribes, the water and the fence had been more than adequate to keep them safe until other Bituriges could come to their aid. But then their ancient tribal enemies had not been armed with scorpions, ballistae, onagers and all the paraphernalia of the Roman army.

As the Roman column had appeared over the horizon, the inhabitants had made a spirited attempt to seal themselves off, succeeding in bringing down the bridge over the narrow northern river and turning the only method of access there into a pile of kindling — a move that had clarified the tribe’s true allegiance as far as the Roman command were concerned. Their attempts on the southern bridge, however, had been less successful, being interrupted by the cavalry vanguard of Caesar’s army before the bridge fell and being forced to retreat within the walls.

There had been a brief confab between the officers and the consensus had been that full siege works would be a waste of time and resources, given the meagre defences of the place. And so the Romans had crossed the twin rivers with ease some half mile upstream where they had become narrow and easily fordable, leaving three legions on the northern bank and one between the two channels, taking four more to the south where the remaining bridge stood. It had been argued that a single cohort could rush the gate across the bridge and crack open Novioduno like a nut, but the risk of significant losses had decided the matter. As the army set up its cordon around the town, not even bothering to raise a mound or dig a ditch, the four southern legions brought their siege engines across the fords, positioned them on appropriate flat areas of ground and, without pause, began to loose their missiles across the river and over the low palisade into the narrow streets of Novioduno. It took less than half an hour for the array of engines to find their aim and begin the systematic destruction of the place from a safe distance.

It had taken a further quarter hour for the dreadful honking — like a skein of geese trapped in a copper pipe and being slowly squeezed to death — to wail out from the city and announce the desire for parlay. Fronto had stood with his teeth gritted, listening to the horrible racket and contemplating that if ever there was a true and just cause for the invasion of Gaul, if had been to rid humanity of the inhuman sound of the carnyx. In answer to the defenders, Caesar had ordered a temporary ceasefire from the artillery barrage.

Now, as Fronto stood with the other staff and senior officers at the southern end of the bridge, Caesar looking as imperious as ever on his white horse, the gate in that palisade opened, wobbling a little from where its left-hand jamb had caught a stray rock during range-finding. A party of half a dozen well-dressed men emerged and strode manfully across the bridge in an impressive show of fearlessness, given the number of scorpions that followed their every move, training foot-long iron-tipped bolts on them as they approached.

The lead figure paused on the bridge and gave a curt bow from the waist, quickly straightening and rattling out a stream of words in his native tongue. Caesar glanced at one of the auxiliary cavalry officers — a noble of the Ambarri — sitting ahorse nearby, and nodded. The man cleared his throat and gave a brief summary of the local’s words.

‘The magistrate of this oppidum asks that Caesar remembers the Bituriges’ oath and their longstanding alliance and would ask that he spare his people, who have made no war upon Rome.’

Fronto snorted derisively, but held his tongue as Caesar responded in a clear, commanding tone.

’We are on a somewhat pressing schedule and cannot spare the time to adequately impress upon the Bituriges of Novioduno how disappointed we are that they have chosen to ignore the oath of which the magistrate speaks and instead send aid and warriors to the renegade Vercingetorix.’ He paused for the cavalry officer to translate his words, and then continued. ‘Consider yourselves fortunate indeed that we are so pressed for time and that I am a generous, merciful man, lest I decide to tarry long enough to leave your oppidum a pile of smoking rubble and corpses.’

Another pause, and Fronto was not surprised to note the look of worry that slid onto the magistrate’s face, and the uncomfortable shuffling of his companions.

‘Here are my terms. Due to your recent tendencies towards rebellion, my men will enter your town and impound every weapon they find, denying you the ability to supply further warriors to the enemy. All horses will be confiscated to prevent you sending riders to his aid. And finally, thirty hostages of your highest noble families will accompany a century of my veterans back to Agedincum, where they will remain until this rebellion is put down and I am satisfied. If there is further trouble from the Bituriges of this town, those thirty will be clapped in irons and transported to Rome for sale in the slave market. Do you understand?’

There was a pause for translation, and then a brief heated discussion between the locals before the magistrate nodded his unhappy acceptance of the terms. Fronto watched the man with a frown. He had almost been ready to refuse, despite the blatant mortal danger in which they stood.

Caesar nodded at him, and Fronto gestured to his primus pilus, who stood at the front of the Tenth nearby.

‘Carbo? Take two centuries of men and empty that place of weapons and horses.’

* * * * *

Lucterius of the Cadurci felt his heart sink as the three scouts who rode ahead of his cavalry force — which had kept up an almost dangerous breakneck pace all the way from Gorgobina — reined in by a stand of three elm trees and waved the signal for the column to halt. A sense of foreboding settling on him, the relief force’s commander picked up speed and raced up the gentle slope to the trees.

His spirits hit subterranean levels as his eyes took in the legions spread out on the plain before Novioduno.

‘We are too late,’ said one of the scouts, somewhat redundantly, given the fact that Lucterius could quite clearly see over a hundred legionaries marching across the southern bridge and into the open gates while the oppidum’s nobles stood in a useless knot, watching their own downfall coming to pass around them.

‘What now?’ another scout asked quietly.

Lucterius fumed. Twice now he had raced to deal a damaging blow to Roman hopes, and twice he had found himself thwarted by the speed and efficiency of their general. His eyes picked out the red-cloaked figure on the white horse, surrounded by officers and Lucterius cursed the man to every god that leapt to mind.

‘We are lucky not to have encountered outriding scouts,’ the first scout reminded him. ‘We will not stay lucky for long. Soon they will discover we are here, so if we are turning back to Gorgobina, we should do so immediately.’

Lucterius ran his tongue along the edge of his top teeth, his mind whirling. He had three and a half thousand horsemen, all strong, determined and experienced warriors. Each was worth at least two Romans in individual combat. The odds were appalling, but more appalling than failing and being forced to retreat again?

‘They have only four legions here, on the southern plain. The others are across the river and will take time to bring into the fray. I can see little sign of their auxiliaries, and only a small force of cavalry — mostly Belgae by the looks of it. Perhaps fifteen thousand infantry, not more than a thousand cavalry — fifteen hundred at most. Seventeen thousand against three and a half. It is far from acceptable odds.’

‘Plus many others who can be brought across the river within an hour or so,’ muttered the scout.

‘The estimated strength in warriors of Novioduno is around a thousand. If we show ourselves, there is a good chance that they will fight with us.’

The scout shook his head in exasperation. ‘That is still four and a half thousand against seventeen. More than four of them to one of us.’

‘But,’ Lucterius smiled slowly, ‘there is something else to consider. Their legions are standing at ease, not prepared for a fight. As far as they are aware they have won the day and are in no danger. And they are formed up facing the town, as are their artillery. We could hit them before they are even aware of who we are. If we hit them fast enough, even a veteran legion will have trouble turning their lines to face us and stopping our charge. And their officers are exposed. There is a chance — a small one, I’ll grant you — but a chance at least, that we could kill Caesar himself. Imagine what that would do to them.’

The scouts were nodding, their faces betraying their uncertainty over the plan’s wisdom, but each picturing their sword biting into the Roman general’s neck.

‘Get back to the column. No tactics. We hit them hard and fast and try to take the commanders. If all goes badly, I will have the horn sounded and we will retreat at speed. Now go.’

* * * * *

Atenos, centurion of the First Cohort’s Second Century in the Tenth legion, former Gallic mercenary and chief training officer of the legion, gestured to the small knot of Biturige nobles who were doing a superb job of impeding his work, standing in the centre of the street just within the gate. They seemed to be arguing over which families would provide hostages for Caesar.

‘Hold your arguments in one of the buildings,’ he barked in his native tongue, not far from that of these despondent nobles, though more refined and inflected with the accent of the Greek and Latin-influenced southern tribes.

The nobles looked up in surprise at this Roman centurion who spoke their tongue like a native, and slowly moved across to the side of the road, still somewhat in the way. Atenos was about to shout at them when his senior centurion, Carbo, shouted down from the second floor of a building close to the gate. He looked up to see the shiny pink face of the centurion within his crested helmet leaning out over a balcony on the second storey.

‘Sir?’

‘This house is a veritable armoury, Atenos. Get some lads in here with a cart. Looks to me like they’ve been preparing for action. Weapons destined for the rebel army.’

Atenos nodded and gestured at a contubernium of his men who were dragging a stubborn, reluctant horse from a stable door nearby. ‘Two of you should be able to manage a horse. The others get in there and help the primus pilus…’

As he turned back to the senior officer on the balcony the air was suddenly rent by a horrendous honking and squawking, and a voice rang out urgently in the local dialect.

‘What the hell was that?’ called Carbo from the balcony, but Atenos was listening to the other, native, voice, his hand cupping his ear and his eyes widening.

‘Enemy cavalry spotted. That’s the call to arms!’

‘Shit!’

As Carbo’s face disappeared from the upper storey, Bituriges appeared from nowhere, stirred by the call and running for the gate. Others were coming up to the palisade, carrying spears or bows. A small group emerged from a side street, running for the house of weapons in which the primus pilus was at work. Atenos felt his head spin. Vercingetorix was here?

‘You!’ he bellowed at a party of legionaries bringing a string of horses down the street. ‘Get inside that building and hold it. Help the primus pilus.’ He gestured to an optio he vaguely recognised, who had emerged from a doorway to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Optio: gather your men and hold that gate!’

Already locals had reached the gate and were busily trying to close it. Atenos drew his blade and ran for the nearest, who was more concerned with pushing the timber structure shut than defending himself. His gladius slammed into the man’s back, sliding between ribs and piercing the organs inside. The man screamed and fell, but the gate continued to swing shut, his comrades still hard at work, trying to keep the legions out.

Again and again, Atenos struck out, stabbing them and pulling them away from the closing portal. Then suddenly there was a deafening ding as something hit his helmet hard and rang it like a bell, shaking his brain and almost causing him to fall. He staggered, his sword momentarily forgotten, and he was spun around as an arrow thudded into his shoulder, hard enough to break bones and only saved from penetration by the double thickness of the mail there.

One of the natives had taken long enough away from the gate to turn on him, and the man raised a sword to bring down in an overhead killing blow, but was sharply knocked aside by a legionary, whose shield boss smashed into him, hard. Then the optio was there with a growing number of men, engaging the Bituriges.

Atenos staggered, bile rising and thick spittle in his mouth at the combination of the pain in his shoulder and the ringing in his ears, which would not stop and which drowned out all other noise. He fell against the wall and was vaguely aware of legionaries fighting to hold the doorway of the house in which Carbo and his men worked. Desperately, Atenos turned to see the gates beginning to pry open once more under the fresh onslaught of the optio and his men.

‘Sound the cornu,’ someone yelled. ‘Rally at the gate.’

Finally overcome by the waves of concussion-induced nausea, Atenos jerked forward and vomited for a long moment before his legs lost all strength and he collapsed to the ground. The last thing he remembered hearing was a desperate call across the river for the legions to form up.

* * * * *

Quintus Atius Varus, Caesar’s commander of cavalry, cursed as he rallied the small force at his command. Had they been expecting trouble, he would have brought the entire cavalry force to the south, instead of a mere thousand, but horsemen were of little use in sieges, so he had been lax.

It seemed the enemy horse numbered perhaps four times their own, without the many thousands of infantry that would be close behind, on the assumption this was Vercingetorix’s van. The enemy had descended the slope with clear purpose, making straight for the commanders where they stood at the end of the southern bridge.

By the time the legions had managed to put out blasts on the instruments and wave the standards, centurions’ whistles piercing the air, the enemy horsemen were already half way to the command party. The ranks of the Tenth — the closest legion — managed with impressive speed and efficiency to turn and form up into the contra equitas, the front rank kneeling and pressing into their wall of interlocking shields, their pila poking out through the gaps to form a hedge that horses would be reluctant to approach, the second rank angling their shields at a slope above the first, adding their own pila to the mass.

Thank Minerva and Mars someone in the Tenth’s rear ranks had their head screwed on and had avoided the urge to panic and scatter the formation. His quickly-called and even quicker-executed command not only saved the Tenth from a brutal cavalry charge, but was likely the only thing that had prevented the enemy from reaching the staff officers beyond them.

But now the enemy horse were turning away from the dreadful wall of javelins and shields and bringing their attention to bear on Varus and his men, who were racing to engage them. Four to one, unless the legions were committed, which Varus thought to be unlikely. Caesar would not give that order, for it would effectively free Novioduno from danger. Indeed, even now, at least a cohort of the Tenth and Twelfth was moving across the bridge to take and hold the town gates, which seemed to be half closed.

Besides, the enemy were all cavalry and could outpace the legions if they so wished.

A fresh horn blast rang across the plain and Varus frowned. It was a Roman cavalry call for a charge and had come from the far side of the field. He craned his neck to see over the advancing Gauls, but could not identify the source of the Roman command.

‘Here we go, lads. No heroics. Try and stay out of too much danger.’

The two cavalry forces met like a tide smashing into a harbour wall, pieces of armour, broken spearheads, blood, mud and sweat thrown into the air like spume. The immediate clash was carnage and Varus found himself an almost immediate victim. As he slashed down again and again with his Gallic-style long-and-broad sword, smashing his shield into another man with wild abandon, a stray spear point drove into his steed’s neck and his horse went down with a scream, dragging him into the mess of thrashing hooves and dying beasts, thrown bodies from both sides and blood and mud mixed together.

As he fell, he managed with the practiced ease of the veteran cavalryman to extricate himself from the saddle so as not to become trapped under the dying horse. He tried to stay close to the animal’s front, avoiding the flailing, kicking rear legs, but the press was too tight to do anything other than pray to Mars and Minerva — and Epona, the native horse goddess he had recently added to his devotions — that he would not be crushed in the chaos. Something struck his shield and he fell back over his thrashing horse, a flailing hoof smashing his shield to pieces and leaving him clutching a ragged plank with sheared bronze edging. He rose and cast it aside but before he could turn, he was struck by a horse’s shoulder point and thrown back again.

He was starting to consider himself lost when an opportunity presented itself. Somehow, in the press as he turned, he found himself staring at a riderless horse, its back covered with a Gallic blanket and a saddle not dissimilar to his own. The horse milled aimlessly, unable to do anything in the crush, and by way of an explanation of its availability, the reins hung to one side, weighed down by the severed hand that still gripped them.

With speed born of desperation, Varus pried the dead fingers from the leather and hauled himself up into the saddle, settling easily between the four leather horns. His lifetime’s experience with horses immediately told him how exhausted this animal was. The beast was close to collapse. It must have been ridden hard for some time before they had joined battle.

A slow smile spread across his face.

‘Give ‘em hell, lads!’ he bellowed above the chaos. ‘Their horses are shattered! And they’re alone.’ For that was the clear conclusion. If they had been the vanguard of Vercingetorix’s army, they would be fresh and ready. That they were this tired meant they had not travelled along with infantry, but run fast. They were a solitary force, and they should by rights have fled and not engaged the Romans. Their commander must have seen the exposed command unit and decided it was worth the chance. Thank the gods the Tenth’s officers had been quick to move to defensive formation.

Unable to tell what was going on beyond the immediate press, Varus drew his dagger with his left hand and began to go to work, his sword slashing out wide and down as he lanced out sharply with the pugio any time he saw flesh come close.

Of course, he could not distinguish friend from foe, given the fact that nine tenths of his own force consisted of native levies, but there was a four to one chance of any Gaul he stuck being an enemy, and in the circumstances he could not spend time shouting challenges with every blow.

‘Varus!’

He looked up and craned his neck to see the source of the call, but was suddenly forced back again as he had to deflect a blow from a snarling Gaul. Sparks flared from the blades as they raked down one another, each tiny flash a fragment of steel cut from the edge. The Gaul’s face moved from haughty anger to surprise as he registered Varus’ dagger pushing through his mail, puncturing leather, flesh and kidney in short order.

The shocked Gaul sagged back in his saddle, his sword flapping wildly, and Varus was surprised — and somewhat grateful — to see the serious face of Aulus Ingenuus, Caesar’s praetorian commander, behind the slumped man.

‘They’re breaking,’ Ingenuus bellowed, as he jabbed his blade into a Gaul and drew it back and across, using the edge as it came up to carve a deep line across the enemy’s face.

‘They’re tired,’ Varus yelled back. ‘They’re alone. No infantry!’

Ingenuus gave a rare smile as he registered the meaning of that. He turned to the man behind him, casually batting aside an opportunistic blow from a random horseman. ‘Sound the call for the Germans.’

The trooper reached for the horn hanging on a leather baldric around his middle and blew a short melody of ten notes, repeating it swiftly. Varus grinned. Though as yet untried in combat, all the army’s cavalry commanders knew of the thousand strong horse unit formed of hired Cherusci from across the Rhenus that had been recruited the previous autumn and had trained for the winter under Quadratus and two of the Praetorian officers. Rumour held that they were like ancient horse-borne titans, afeared of nothing save failure.

Varus laughed as he heard an answering blast, and swung his sword once more, dealing havoc in the press.

* * * * *

Lucterius felt his failure like a hammer blow to the chest.

He had ridden as hard as he could for the command party. Had his men and their beasts been fresh, he might well have taken them and killed Caesar on the spot, but the three and a half thousand Cadurci were exhausted from their ride, and by the time they were close enough to engage, the legions, who had recovered themselves so much faster than Lucterius had believed possible, had formed a wall of shields, bristling with spears that denied any chance of the cavalry breaking them.

From that point, Lucterius knew that he had failed in both his prime and secondary objectives. He had not reached Novioduno fast enough to provide extra strength, for Caesar somehow moved at unbelievable speeds across the land and, thwarted in that goal, he had then failed also to deliver a dreadful blow to their commanders.

He had almost sounded the retreat then, but one last chance to pull something from the disaster had presented itself. The legions had remained in position, not moving to intercept. He had realised then that he was only faced with the Romans’ cavalry contingent, who were at poor four-to-one odds. And so he had turned his Cadurci from the solid legion lines and taken them against the horsemen. Their levels of success had been difficult to judge, given the fact that most of the Roman force consisted of levies from the tribes anyway, but it had appeared to be going heavily their way for a short time.

Then, however, his men had started to flag, their reserves of strength used up, their adrenaline from the attack exhausted. He had been struggling against the urge to call his men off when the decision had been made easy for him. As if from nowhere, several hundred more horsemen had arrived — this time the rare Roman regular cavalry, well-armed and well-trained, fresh and calm. Their effect on the tired Cadurci had been dreadful and in only moments before his very eyes, Lucterius had watched the tide of battle begin to flow the other way.

He had waved at his standard bearer, who also carried a small horn to sound commands, but the man’s head had been split neatly in half even as he turned to answer, so the retreat went unsounded. Then, when it had looked as though matters could get no worse, another call had gone up, and a third horse unit had thundered across the field, on its way to engage.

Lucterius had been astonished to hear Germanic battle cries emanating from the new unit, though they were as well-equipped and armed as any horseman he had ever met, bearing the best steel and mail Roman armourers could provide.

They had hit his Cadurci like a hammer on a block of soft butter. It had been simply astonishing. Lucterius had watched in horror as his cousin — a commander in his own right — had his head severed with three blows, at which the German had paused in his advance to tie the grisly prize to his saddle horn by the hair, tendrils hanging from the neck and blood pouring down his leg and the flank of the horse.

There was utter chaos. No chance to call the retreat. No music. No standards. Just Latin and Germanic voices raised in bloody triumph and the sound of his Cadurci shrieking and gurgling their last. And he had taken the only option left open.

He had dispatched the man who was trying to kill him, wheeled his horse, and raced for the hill and for freedom. He knew that he could only keep this pace for half a mile at most before his horse collapsed, but that would have to be enough. The Romans would not venture too far from their army and the captive oppidum.

He never looked back as he ran from the disaster.

He had reached the edge of a wide swathe of woodland which would grant them hope of safety when his horse stumbled to a halt and he dismounted in an attempt to save it from collapse. Only then did he pause to take stock.

Those who’d had the chance had followed him from the fight, but they looked all too few.

He had taken three and a half thousand cavalry against the Romans and he was now returning to Vercingetorix and the army with only tidings of failure, supported by considerably less than a thousand of his tribesmen.

Twice now, Caesar had bested him.

If Vercingetorix ever trusted him with a command again, he would make damn sure it did not happen a third time.

* * * * *

Fronto climbed up onto the low walkway behind the palisade fence, which afforded him a meagre view of what was going on over the river to the south. While the fine detail of what was happening eluded him, one thing was clear: Rome had won the bout. A rag-tag force of broken cavalry fled over the rise to the south. Fronto watched as the insane German horse — who had only been champing at the bit for a little action these past few engagements and had finally been committed — raced after the fleeing enemy, cutting them down and turning them into grisly ornaments as they ran, until finally the calls, cries, whistles and mad waving of standards drew them back.

Things had been going reasonably easy in the oppidum also. Somehow, despite being outnumbered, an optio who deserved a field promotion had managed to take the gates from the natives who had tried to close them, and had held them until a combined force of the Tenth and the Twelfth, led by Fronto and the other legion’s veteran primus pilus, Baculus, had crossed the bridge and secured the oppidum.

His own senior centurion, Carbo, had managed to secure a large arms cache in a nearby building, and with only ten men had managed to defend the house and prevent the arming of half the tribe in short order.

Nearby, Atenos sat on a low wall, blood trickling from both ears, his face grey and his eyes unfocused as a capsarius checked him over for damage. There was a bruise the size of an apple on the centurion's temple where his helmet had been dented inwards by a blow, and the medic was carefully peeling off a mail shirt and cutting away a tunic to show a shoulder that was already purpling all over. Atenos was always in the thick of it, yet consistently escaped unscathed. Still, the capsarius was working steadily and showing no sign of overt alarm, so Fronto was confident that the powerful officer had suffered nothing life-threatening.

Two legionaries emerged from a side alley, dragging a wounded local between them. Fronto narrowed his eyes at the man’s attire and was fairly sure that the man was one of the nobles who had negotiated the initial surrender. He looked broken and hopeless.

And well he should.

‘Poor judgement, that attempt to shut us back out,’ he said quietly, smiling unpleasantly at the noble. ‘Sadly, you have now forfeited all rights to negotiation. Here are my new terms, delivered on behalf of Caesar.’

He straightened and folded his arms.

‘Everyone in Novioduno will now surrender themselves to the legions. You will all be roped in a slave convoy and escorted by armed column to Agedincum, whence you will be taken to Rome. Anyone who has not left the oppidum within half an hour will be considered to have refused my terms and will find themselves at the tender mercies of the legionaries as they search the town. Be sure that, though the Tenth are honourable soldiers in war, they will not be under any command restriction then, and the fate of anyone they find will make slavery look truly desirable. Am I understood?’

The nobleman opened his mouth to bluster, but sagged with the realisation of utter hopelessness, and simply nodded.

‘Go and tell your townsfolk. And remember: half an hour.’

‘It is almost as though you read my mind, Marcus,’ said a quiet voice from behind, and Fronto turned to see Caesar, Priscus and Marcus Antonius standing together.

‘Do we leave the place, or reduce it, general?’

Caesar opened his mouth to reply, but turned at a groan to see Atenos struggling to stand upright and salute, despite the fact that he was clearly still barely-conscious and unbalanced and the capsarius was trying to hold him down.

’For the love of Mars, centurion, stay seated.’ As Atenos sagged again with relief, Caesar turned to Fronto. ‘Level the place and burn the ruins. I do not want it usable by the Bituriges after this. I will not allow an enemy to fortify behind us. And now that we know the Bituriges are definitely with the rebels, I will not delay in moving against Avaricon.’ He breathed in the afternoon’s chill air and stretched. ‘Time to remove the Bituriges from the game entirely before we move on Vercingetorix and his army.’

* * * * *

‘How long has it been?’ Vergasillaunus asked, his voice dark.

Lucterius sagged, his eyelids heavy, the dirt of his journey still caking him, along with the sweat of flight and the gore of battle. He sighed. ‘Two and a half days. We would have been quicker, but our horses were spent. Only stealing replacement mounts from farms that we passed got us here this fast.’

‘We know that it takes legions time to move along with their siege engines, and they will have matters to conclude in Novioduno first. Perhaps they have not moved yet?’ Vergasillaunus hazarded, though his expression confirmed that he did not truly believe his own words.

Vercingetorix shook his head. ‘Caesar has moved speedily and decisively at every turn. Far more so than we had ever believed possible. He will not have delayed at Novioduno. In fact, with more than two days gone, there is every chance that he is already at Avaricon.’ He turned an inscrutable gaze on Lucterius. ‘What say you?’

‘The man is always ahead. You can be assured that if we ride for Avaricon he will be there awaiting us. He certainly will not tarry while he believes we are close.’

‘I agree. So we have decisions to make.’

The nobles and chieftains of the allied tribes and the three druids present leaned closer to the communal fire, hanging on their commander’s words. No one would dare put forward a suggestion before he spoke further.

‘The Romans have the grain they took from Vellaunoduno. Be sure that they supplied their men from the ruins of Cenabum also. Now they have taken Novioduno, and any supplies there have been added to the Roman wagon train. Their main supply station is in the north at Agedincum. We have severed their supply lines to their own lands, but Caesar outmanoeuvres us by resupplying in the field through forage and captured goods. We had hoped to meet him at Avaricon with our full force and defeat him there, but he moves too fast and is too well supplied. If we hope to defeat him in open battle, our best hope to weaken him first is to deny him food.’

There were nods all round at this piece of clear wisdom. That Rome was made strong by their own grain, which had been meant for this army, rankled, and every man here begrudged them that.

‘We must begin a campaign of refusal. Wherever Caesar turns he must find nothing of use. No crops. No livestock. No grain stores. Nothing.’

‘How do we go about gathering it all and transporting it?’ asked one of the lesser chiefs curiously. ‘That could take months, by which time there will be a fresh harvest waiting.’

‘We do not gather it. Our stores are secure and we will continue to draw extra food into our powerful fortresses, such as Gergovia and Gondole, Corenduno and Carenedia. We continue to work on the Aedui. Now that Caesar crushes the Bituriges, we may be able to use that to tip the scales with the Aedui leaders. Anywhere else that is endangered and could be of use to Caesar must be destroyed.’

‘What?’ another of the chiefs yelped, his eyes wide. ‘You would destroy our own settlements?’

‘Yes I would. And I will. Better to watch our own homes burn than to allow the Romans a night’s rest within them. From this point on, I will assign cavalry units the task of clearing out the land ahead of Caesar’s army, burning settlements, crops and farms and even the livestock. The Romans shall find no succour wherever they go. Thus, by the time we have reduced Gorgobina and the Aedui are with us, Caesar’s army will be poorly-provisioned and weak. Ripe for the picking.’

‘But you cannot mean to fire our homes?’ asked another incredulous chief — one of the Bituriges from a minor town to the west, Vercingetorix seemed to remember.

‘That is exactly what we must do. No house must be saved. We must all sacrifice of our personal property to deny Rome what they need to succeed.’

‘That’s fine for you to say,’ snapped another of the Bituriges. ‘Your home is Gergovia, way to the south, out of harm’s way. You are not required to sacrifice of your own, just of ours!’

‘Rest assured that should Caesar march south, I will burn Gergovia as readily as I would burn any other place that might be made to work for Rome. And the more Rome starves, the more Caesar will be forced to send out parties over great distances to search for provisions. These overextensions will be at clear risk of raids, and those same cavalry units who are abroad, burning anything of use, can use their best judgement to deal with any forage parties they come across. We will erode the edges of Caesar’s army and leave the centre to starve, and then, in time, when we are stronger, we will move upon him and crush him utterly.’

‘And what of Avaricon?’

Vercingetorix glanced across at his cousin, who had filled the uncomfortable silence. Vergasillaunus was scratching his chin thoughtfully.

‘Avaricon is out of our reach for now. We must hope that it holds without us and that if it falls our best and brightest manage to escape alive, including Critognatos and Cavarinos.’

‘You said that Avaricon was unassailable? That it could hold almost indefinitely, and that once we were finished here, we would move to aid them. So what is it to be?’

‘Burn it,’ murmured Lucterius, and all eyes turned to him. He took a deep breath. ‘Send word to your men inside. Tell them to hold for as long as they can and then torch the place if it falls, so that Rome cannot use it.’

A dozen lesser chieftains of the Bituriges stood, yelling.

‘You can’t burn Avaricon!’

‘Our capital must be saved!’

‘We will not allow this!’

Vercingetorix waited for the commotion to die down and cut through the noise with an even tone. ‘I will not give the order to fire the city, unless it becomes a matter of vital importance.’ He stretched. ‘Instead, we will send a further garrison to help bolster it. Perhaps we can keep Caesar so concerned with Avaricon that he starves before its walls and long enough for us to enlist the recalcitrant Aedui and bring them in.’

‘No.’

All eyes now turned on the speaker, one of the angry Bituriges.

‘What?’

‘No. Avaricon is critical. You will not sacrifice our capital to keep Rome busy while you inveigle your way into the cursed Aedui’s good graces.’

There were murmurs of agreement among the assembled Bituriges.

‘We only joined your damned revolution because you showed yourself to be stronger than the Aedui, and you claimed to have the good of all the tribes at heart. Prove it!’

Vercingetorix sighed. ‘What would you have me do? Abandon Gorgobina after all this time? Abandon our pursuit of the Aedui?’

‘Yes.’

Vergasillaunus frowned at this new voice that had joined, for he was not one of the Bituriges.

‘What say you, Argicios of the Carnutes?’

‘Our people are crushed. Cenabum lies in ruins because of our alliance with you. No mention has been made of any consideration for our plight, despite the fact that we began this war for you, struck the first blow in defiance of Rome. And we still stand by our oath to you, as do our Senone brothers, who have watched their towns ravaged while their greatest city has played host to the Romans all winter. But no more will we follow blindly. We must stand by our brothers. If we are to be an army of all the tribes, we cannot be expected to sacrifice that which makes us what we are. If you continue your endless siege here and your fruitless pursuit of the Aedui, while allowing your loyal allies to languish under the Roman heel, we will consider our oath as void and return to our own lands to proceed however we can.’

Vercingetorix, his expression cold and hard, eyed those present. A dangerous number of the army’s leaders were now on their feet in support of the Bituriges.

His cousin waved an angry hand. ‘You are speaking to your king! He leads us and he has spoken! You need all…’

He fell silent as Vercingetorix stood, his imposing presence in the dancing firelight silencing the entire crowd.

‘It comes to this: I will not lead an army who does not believe in me. And so I will abide by the decision of the mass of chieftains here this night. But let me lay something out in straight words for you.’

He drew his sword and slammed it point first into the ground before the fire.

‘I have studied every angle of this campaign. My close advisors and I have a solid picture of what must be done to win — a plan over a year in the making and to which there is no workable alternative. And despite Caesar’s movements and a number of small setbacks, nothing has yet changed in the grand scheme. We have lost a few engagements, sacrificed perhaps three thousand men in total. Rome will have lost men too. But they are reliant upon forage and have no new men to draft. We have our own food and our own fortresses, and despite any losses, our numbers continue to grow, while Caesar’s only shrink.’

He crouched before the sword, the golden light dancing impressively across his features and in his eyes. ‘The fact remains that the Aedui are the largest and strongest individual tribe in Gaul. Moreover, Rome trusts them, which gives us tremendous advantages when we bring them to our cause. Think what advantage they provide Caesar if we do not. If we abandon this siege and leave the Aedui to their own devices, they will likely continue to support Rome and then we will face superior numbers.’

He ran an idle finger along the sword’s edge.

‘And I believe in my heart that breaking the siege and rushing off to aid Avaricon before we are numerically prepared is the worst possible use of our time. We will not be able to enter the city while it is under siege and any attempt to engage Rome outside its walls is at best extremely dangerous. In short, if we abandon our plans now, we may ruin any chance we ever have of successfully concluding this war. If we place the safety of the Bituriges’ capital above the good of the army, we may cause our own downfall.’

He tapped the hilt of the sword so that it swayed back and forth in the ground, gleaming menacingly in the firelight.

‘So, assembled chieftains of the tribes, what is to be our path?’

PART TWO: EXCHANGES AND GAMBITS

Chapter 8

Hillside east of Avaricon

Vergasillaunus leaned on the rail of a weapon rack and looked out over the gentle slope ahead, where a narrow stream happily gurgled its way, meandering towards the distant war zone of Avaricon and creating a shallow trench of marshy land. It was the first morning he could remember of the entire year when he had not shivered when he awoke, and he hoped fervently that the slight change heralded the end of the chill winter and the dawn of spring.

Ahead, the front riders of the thousand-strong cavalry force were heading for the army’s commanders, while the rest returned to their own small tribal groups to rest. Vergasillaunus cleared his throat and prepared himself. His cousin had been taciturn and rarely-responsive since the other chiefs had forced his hand and turned the army from Gorgobina and the Aedui in pursuit of Caesar and the saving of Avaricon. Vercingetorix was not a man given to uncontrolled temper, but his mood had become unusually fiery since having his plans overturned by his own officers.

‘Lucterius seems to be smiling. Makes a change.’

There was no reply from the army’s commander and Vergasillaunus sighed as he watched the Cadurci chieftain approach and dismount with an expression of grim satisfaction. Despite having agreed to move on Avaricon, the king had still counselled caution and care. Instead of marching straight into action, they had set up camp on a bleak, wind-blown hillside some fifteen miles from the Bituriges’ oppidum, protected by a screen of woods to the north and a swampy stream to the south, and sent out scouts. The riders had confirmed that Caesar and his army were already before the walls of Avaricon, camped in almost the same position as Vercingetorix had been over a month previously. Given this news, and the knowledge that all other approaches to the oppidum were buried beneath marsh and swamp, the king had put down his foot and kept the army here, so many miles away, where he was in no danger from Caesar’s superior force.

However, he had not rested upon his laurels, sending numerous scouts out to keep him apprised of all that went on in the region, and immediately issuing a string of orders. Now, at any given moment there were three separate forces of a thousand cavalry out in the land, burning all settlements, farms, crops and animals, removing any hope of the Romans foraging.

Better than this, even in the first two days of being camped here, the roving cavalry forces had come across five separate Roman foraging units and had slaughtered them all, leaving no survivors to bring news of their fate to their general. As well as hungry, the Romans must be starting to become nervous.

The Cadurci chief bowed his head as he approached. Vergasillaunus clenched his teeth, hoping that his cousin would override his anger and manage civility. Not only was Lucterius an able leader, despite his recent run of bad luck, but he was also one of the few chieftains who was wholly committed and had stood by them at all times.

‘Two pieces of good news,’ the Cadurci said, exhaling as he crouched. ‘We found and destroyed another forage party. This time it was three centuries together — we counted the crested heads afterwards. They are strengthening their units, so they must be fearing to send them.’

Vergasillaunus nodded. ‘They are searching further afield also. Late last night, Epacos and his Carnutes came across a six-cart supply train coming from the north — from Cenabum probably — and brought it back to us, leaving the Roman bodies for the crows. They must be starting to get desperate.’

‘To add to your glee, then, Vergasillaunus,’ the weary warrior replied, ‘you will be pleased to hear that we came across just such a convoy coming in from the southeast, manned by Aedui warriors. They had been delayed when their carts sank into marshy ground. Rather than struggle in the same manner, we torched the carts and their grain sacks together.’

Vergasillaunus nodded, a pleased smile upon his face.

‘And what of the Aedui escort?’ asked the king quietly.

‘Those who survived our swords burned with the grain.’

‘You believe this will help bring the Aedui to our cause?’ Vercingetorix’s voice carried a dangerous undertone, and his cousin steadied himself for trouble, but Lucterius simply narrowed his eyes. ‘I will gut and burn any man I find feeding the Romans,’ he replied, ‘be he Aedui, Arverni or even my own Cadurci. This war will not be won by faint hearts.’

The king was silent for some time, but finally he nodded. ‘You did well, Lucterius. I have more men working within the Aedui now, too. Soon, with any luck, they will join us and, by then, Caesar’s army will be emaciated and weak, and we can stamp him out, grinding him against Avaricon’s walls. But faint heart or no, we will not move until we are sure of our numbers.’

The Cadurci chief’s face betrayed his disapproval, but he nodded and rose to leave, nonetheless.

‘Avaricon can hold,’ Vercingetorix said quietly as though reading his cousin’s thoughts.

‘I hope so. I truly do.’

* * * * *

‘It’s a tough nut to crack,’ Fronto mused as the small knot of officers stood on the westward slope and took in the majestic strength of Avaricon through the fine mist of drizzle. The walls were high, topped with regular towers and made all the more formidable by nature, which had provided the Bituriges with an incline below, then a marshy dip before the hill upon which the Roman camp lay.

‘If there were another option, I would consider it,’ Caesar said quietly, though all present were quite aware of the impossibility of the other routes. Pre-warned of the Roman approach, the Bituriges had taken the drastic decision to destroy the bridges over the rivers that girded it, making those swampy morasses with their snaking channels a deadly proposition for any army. The only feasible route was this one: an attack from the east, down the gentle incline, across the marsh dip and then up against the powerful walls, all under the falling missiles of the defenders.

Moreover, the army’s formidable array of siege weaponry was proving largely ineffective. Due to the slope of the ground and the distance to the walls, the ammunition of the few engines that could be brought to bear on Avaricon had lost so much power and accuracy by the time they reached the walls that they impacted harmlessly to the jeers of the defenders.

For six days now, the Roman force had tweaked their positions, trying to bring deadly missiles against the city, but still nothing had even broken a stone. A few tentative attempts to send work parties out in the dark to undermine the walls had failed dismally, the Bituriges bringing all their experience from their numerous iron mines to bear and collapsing the Roman attempts without any harm befalling the walls. Indeed, any time a Roman force neared the ramparts, they came under a hail of heavy stones and cauldrons of boiling pitch. Hooks thrown over the walls to aid climbers had been dragged inside with noosed ropes. After an attempt to burn the timber towers with fire arrows, the Bituriges had coated their defences with dampened hides in a very Roman manoeuvre. Given the increasing mood of despondency among the legions, who were beginning now to feel the effects of the dwindling supplies, the officers had decided the previous night not to risk any more such pointless attacks, lest they ruin the army’s morale entirely.

‘Artillery is not the way, though, general.’

Fronto glanced up in surprise at the voice. He would never get used to Plancus uttering sense, though it seemed to be happening more and more in staff meetings these days. It seemed Gaul had taught the man a thing or two about command.

‘Indeed. The Bituriges have planned their capital well and their gods watch over them.’ The general frowned and turned to Antonius. ‘Do we know what gods they revere here?’

‘The usual,’ shrugged Antonius, then scratched his head. ‘But I do also remember hearing tell of a local god called Anvallus. The ‘unconquered’ apparently.’

‘Interesting,’ the general tapped his lip. ‘Have the priests sacrifice to Jove, Mars and Minerva as usual, but make sure they invoke Teutatus and Taranis and pay special attention to this Anvallus. We’ll find it easier to get over those walls with ‘the unconquered’ with us, rather than against us.’

Fronto smiled as he watched Antonius nod and file the names away. It seemed a particularly interesting facet of the unpredictable officer that he was capable of the most appalling casual drunken blasphemy and yet paid such close attention to any shrine or temple they came across and seemed to live his life by the predictions of auguries and seers. The strange juxtaposition was just one of the things that he liked about Antonius.

‘But favour of the gods aside,’ Plancus returned to the subject in hand, ‘what do we do in the absence of artillery range?’

‘We could build artillery platforms closer to the walls?’ mused Cicero.

Priscus shook his head. ‘Once we get them within effective range, the trajectories will be so high it will cause the artillerists endless headaches. Besides, once we get them that close, they’ll be under attack from the walls because of their height and angle. For every bolt or rock we put over the walls, we’ll lose several men. Hardly worth it.’

‘So it’s a straight infantry assault?’ Fronto sighed. ‘Seems the only feasible solution. But it’ll be costly. Very costly.’

‘Too costly,’ Caesar said quietly. ‘There is a force of rebels out there somewhere nearby that might outnumber us by now. I cannot afford to throw away veteran legionaries on an unassailable wall with that kind of danger floating about. The rampart is too high for men to scale, even with ladders, and siege towers and vineae are not an option. The ground is too marshy and soft. The machines would sink.’

‘Unless we build it up,’ murmured Priscus. The gathering of staff officers turned to the prefect with interested frowns.

‘Picture the dip,’ Priscus continued, ‘but picture it crossed by a wide causeway. It would give us a solid surface for vehicles and negate some of the lowest slopes beneath the walls.’

Caesar smiled. ‘Better still, we make the causeway slope upwards to the west and turn it into a ramp, gradually ascending to the walls. It will negate the height advantage for the sake of a little extra initial work.’

‘The men are hungry, mind, Caesar. And hunger makes them weaker than usual. We moved onto half rations days ago, and Proculus tells me we’ll be halving that again in a few days. Soldiers living on hard-tack biscuits will struggle to build such a structure… especially under constant attack from the walls.’

Antonius cleared his throat. ‘Is there no word from the Aedui or the Boii about your request for grain? Or from Agedincum or Cenabum?’

Caesar shook his head. ‘The possibility that the tribes are refusing aid in line with the enemy’s wishes concerns me as much as the more likely chances that the rebels are waylaying their convoys en route. But whatever the cause, we must press on here as fast as we can. We cannot afford to retreat to a well-supplied position. Our speed has given us an advantage over the Arvernian rebel, and I will not give up that advantage.’

‘We could send out a few cohorts?’ Antonius argued. ‘Or a large cavalry force? To Bibracte, perhaps, to seek supplies? The gods know we could do with a little more knowledge of what’s going on out there? Our forage parties disappear without trace, which suggests that Vercingetorix is close by. If we could move against him, our siege here would be redundant.’

‘No.’ Caesar peered into the drizzle and shivered. ‘Each time we send out men, they disappear. I will not throw away any more units of good men. I agree that we need more information, but sending groups of legionaries out is inviting destruction. Instead, select a few dozen native riders that could pass as locals. Have them dress in a civilian manner and send them out as scouts. They are to avoid trouble, but locate any farms that have not been burned to cinders, or any sizeable enemy force, and report back with what they find.’

He pulled his heavy, damp red cloak about his shoulders and gestured to the walls across the dip. ‘Give the soldiers two days of rest. During that time all we will do is have a watch mounted and rotate the men in groups to construct two siege towers and as many vineae as the local woodlands will provide. The men can rest and prepare when off-shift.’

‘Vineae, sir?’ All present imagined the hide-roofed structures designed to protect attacking troops crossing the proposed ramp.

Caesar smiled at Plancus. ‘Yes. Vineae. They will protect the men as they build the ramp. We will place them in continual lines approaching the walls, such that the man can use them as tunnels taking them from the safety of camp to the latest build site. The enemy’s weapons will be largely negated.’

Fronto nodded appreciatively. It would sit well with the tired, hungry men to be well protected in their work.

‘Now let us set about the task of building their morale before we ask them to build us a ramp. Have the first cohort of each legion fall in at the flat ground beyond the camp. Tell your men that tunics and belts is the order. No armour or weapons. They are not on parade and may stand easy.’

* * * * *

Caesar stood before the gathered men. The legionaries had the look of an army on campaign, unshaven and dirty with ragged hair and mud-spattered kit. Their appearance was not improved by the fact that the morning’s drizzle had strengthened as the day wore towards noon and had become the spirit-crushing rain that seemed so endemic of Gaulish winters.

And yet the sodden, unkempt and dirty legionaries gathered on the flat turf stood proud and in neat lines, despite the order to attend at ease. The optios and centurions had waived that order and kept their armour, crested helmets and staffs that marked their rank. They made their commander proud. And they had been attentively silent, without a word of complaint as they waited.

The general took a few steps forward into the centre of the arc of men.

‘Men of the legions… soldiers of Rome… conquerors of Gaul. Thank you.’

There was a mix of confusion and pleasure at this odd profession of gratitude, apparent in every face, and yet not a voice broke the silence, such was the discipline of the veterans.

‘You face hardships with the stoic acceptance of true Romans. For that is what you are. Some of you have been drawn from my provinces and from underprivileged societies, regardless of the standing senatorial orders for the raising and manning of a legion. But every man here is now a citizen of Rome — a chosen son of the republic. And you make your nation proud with your manner.’

As pre-arranged, Marcus Antonius stepped up from the back, carrying a tray of small bags. Caesar took the first from the tray.

‘Our allies have been requested to supply us with extra grain and, though their attempts to send us goods seem to have been waylaid by the enemy, this is naught but a setback. You have faced the hunger of halved rations with strength and dignity, and I salute you for it. I am told that conditions worsen, and am sure that rumour of this will already have reached you. Rations will have to be cut again unless our convoys reach us.’

He paused, waiting for the groan, though only a few small voices murmured, their optios jabbing them with staffs to keep them quiet.

‘I will not ask any of you to suffer in a manner that I am not willing to experience myself. In order to drag out our supplies as best we can, as of this morning, the officers are all moving to quarter rations to help stretch the food supplies.’

He cast the small bag into the crowd, where a legionary caught it with ease.

‘This is the officers’ rations. Good white flour. The finest milled. It will be added to your supplies today.’

There was a cheer as Antonius began to fling the small bags of flour out into the mass of men, Plancus and Fronto stepping forward with two more trays and joining the display of largesse. It would make little real difference in terms of hunger, but the gesture would be more than appreciated.

‘In order to bring matters to a close here,’ Caesar announced, while the distribution continued, ‘it is my intention to construct a ramp. The work will cross the dip and the marsh and will deliver us dry to the walls, allowing us to complete our siege in the usual manner of a Roman army. Vineae will be placed as we work to keep enemy missiles from your heads.’

He paused, a sly look passing across his eyes, unnoticed by the crowd.

‘But I will never carry out such a work at the expense of my legions. If you are feeling the pinch of hunger too deep to commit to such work, then I understand. If we reach the point at which you can no longer go on and it becomes critical for us to return to our supply bases, I will raise the siege without further comment, and the army will break camp and move away.’

‘Piss on that!’ came a voice from the crowd, and the statement brought a small chorus of agreement and no ding on the head from his optio.

‘You would have us continue?’

A man in the press of legionaries looked left and right and, seeing no reason not to, rose to his feet. His ochre-coloured scarf identified him as an engineer, and he cleared his throat noisily.

‘We can have that ramp up for you in two weeks. Three at most.’

Caesar frowned — he’d planned on not more than a week. The legionary noted the look of surprise on his general’s face and pursed his lips. ‘It’ll need to be maybe four hundred paces long and upward of eighty feet in height. And the width will have to be a lot more than that of a simple siege tower to provide adequate stability. Two to three weeks to be sure of success.’

Someone nearby muttered something Caesar couldn’t catch, but which earned him a clout with an optio’s staff.

‘Don’t you worry sir,’ shouted another man. ‘We’ll get it done fast. We’ve never abandoned a siege yet, all through this piss-poor land, an’ we ain’t going to start doin’ it now.’

‘Yeah,’ threw in another. ‘Remember the mounds at Cenabum? Those poor bastards! For them.’

Caesar bowed his head in response. At least a week longer than he’d expected, then, and possibly more. A week or two more of starvation and hardship, and yet his men were unbroken, prepared for the troubles ahead and undaunted. It was what Pompey always missed in his aloof separateness from his army: the sheer humbling nobility of the ordinary soldier.

‘For the victims of Cenabum,’ he said quietly, but loud enough to be heard across the space. ‘For all those who have fallen in the name of Gaul’s pacification, we will crack Avaricon and bring the Bituriges to heal and by the kalends of Aprilis we will stand in their halls eating their bread and drinking their wine.’

He closed his eyes and basked in the roar of approval.

* * * * *

The days wore on in privation and poor weather. The rain had set in as a constant — that early spring rain that battered the land with misery rather than a winter chill and dragged down the spirits of the men off whose armour and shields it pinged and clattered.

The rough turf of the hillside became a mire of sucking and oozing mud, with brown streams and rivulets carrying the mess down into the dip before the city, adding to the burgeoning swamp at the bottom.

Caesar took one more look through the interminable rain at the ramp, already impressive and marching out across the soggy dip, lined with the roofed vineae through the tunnels of which men moved constantly, carrying baskets of rocks and earth or lengths of timber. Occasionally one of the more hopeful of the Bituriges would loose an arrow at them, but they rarely struck, the defenders having discovered early on the protective power of the timber-and-hide sheds. There seemed nothing to do for either force but to watch the ramp’s gradual rise as it approached the walls.

‘Caesar?’

He turned at the voice and registered again the Aedui scout standing patiently waiting for debrief. ‘Speak.’

‘There is much to tell, Caesar.’

‘Go on.’ The general clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as he watched Fronto stomping angrily up the ramp with his engineer, Pomponius, in tow, and slapping a legionary around the back of the head, at which the man dropped his basket of rocks, earning him another hard slap.

‘We have located the enemy’s camp, general. I and my companion came across a single warrior separated from their army, scouting in the same manner as us. I persuaded him to answer a few questions, and then left his body hidden and we rode out to confirm the truth of his words.’

Caesar nodded, his mouth turning up at the corner as the legionary, struggling to pick up his rocks, dropped one on Fronto’s foot, bringing forth a stream of invective that could be heard even at this distance, followed by a fresh bout of head-slapping.

‘It seems,’ the scout continued, ‘that Vercingetorix had positioned his camp on the moors some fifteen miles east of here, back towards Aedui land. It was from that place that he sent out his raiders but, having burned all that could be burned within easy reach and effectively cut off all our supply routes, he broke camp two days ago and is now in position on the far side of Avaricon, less than five miles distant. He seems to have now positioned himself close to the supply route our wagons from the north would take.’

Caesar’s stomach gave an involuntary and rather loud growl. He had stood by his word, the officers rationing themselves along with the men. He coughed to hide his irritation.

‘Cunning, isn’t he,’ the general murmured. ‘He has effectively removed all the forageable goods within our conceivable reach and now he moves in force to blockade any supplies. He is well informed, too, apparently. Less than a week since, I sent riders to Labienus and Trebonius, asking that they send well-defended columns with grain. Such a column would get through his usual raids, but not a large interception force.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I cannot believe this is his full army, however. He will have left men in the east to prevent supplies from the Aedui and the Boii reaching us. Perhaps he has split his army in two. Do you have any estimate of the camp’s numbers?’

‘Fewer than us, Caesar. Whether there is a second force elsewhere I cannot be sure, but as I observed the camp, I watched a man ride out with a large force of cavalry and infantry, heading north. From his entourage and all the commotion as he left, I can only assume it was Vercingetorix himself. He certainly rode under an Arvernian standard.’

‘So,’ Caesar mused, cradling his fingers, ‘more than likely we are looking at the enemy force being divided between two camps some distance from one another, and their leader has taken a number of them from the near camp. What can you tell me of their camp’s defences?’

The scout frowned. ‘There are no true defences, general, but they do not really need them. The hill upon which they are camped is low, but surrounded by the same swamps that defend Avaricon. The only feasible access to the hill is by two bridges. An attack would become congested at the bridge. I can only recommend against it, Caesar.’

‘What of their baggage?’

Another frown. ‘It sits atop the hill at the camp.’

Caesar pursed his lips, clearly tempted. ‘I relish the opportunity to strike at a minimal force and take his supplies, effectively pushing him into the same privations as us.’ He sighed. ‘But it is not to be. If I draw off enough men to deal with them, I imperil all we have achieved here. And as soon as they see us coming, they will destroy the bridges. We will be at great risk and likely impotent. Our best hope is to continue our action here until Avaricon falls and then raid its granaries, enabling us to continue our campaign and turn our sights on the great enemy himself. Perhaps if we are fortunate, his army will remain split until then.’

He shifted his gaze back on the walls of the oppidum before them, arms still behind his back as he sucked on his lip. The ramp was so close now, he could almost feel the walls starting to fall.

* * * * *

Vercingetorix slid from his sweating mount, the rain showering from him as he hit the sodden turf and shook out his cloak. Behind him, his vanguard of a score of the best cavalry dispersed at a nod from their commander, and the king of the Arverni smiled at his cousin.

‘Your face is dour and unhappy, Vergasillaunus. Does my appearance so distress you?’

The second in command of the Gallic army snorted, his eyes flinty. ‘The mood in the camp is not good, cousin. You return to find an army close to abandoning your cause.’

‘Oh? Do explain.’ His gaze took in the huge camp on the low hill, beyond which he could see the misty miasma of the marshes rising almost to obscure the hill of Avaricon a few miles distant. On the wide low crest here rested more than three quarters of his force, a small detachment left in the east to thwart the Boii and the Aedui in their efforts at resupply, and cavalry forces continually out and about burning anything they could find and still on occasion catching the Roman forage parties who would run cheering back to their camp even if all they caught was a brace of coneys. Avaricon may be denied them, since the swamps that kept out the Romans affected the Gauls the same way, but his army was still strong, while the Romans suffered daily.

‘Your men are hungry, cousin.’

‘Not as hungry as the Romans.’

Vergasillaunus clicked his tongue irritably. ‘Stop that. We burned everything within forty miles of this place, and anything of real value far beyond that. Well done. Your policy of charring the earth is starving the Romans. And yet they do not stop. They live on small biscuits and brackish water, apparently. But no forage for the Romans means no forage for us, too. Your army grows hungry and restive. We are close to the Romans, but we do not fight them, and the hungrier the men get, the more your allies begin to mutter against you.’

‘Then they will be pleased at what we bring.’

Vergasillaunus frowned, and his cousin broke into a wide grin. ‘The Romans have sent us a great gift: upwards of thirty wagons of grain and meat, with extra livestock, and even some of their emergency biscuits. And a few dozen of their men to entertain us, including an officer.’

‘You found the column from Cenabum? The spies were right?’

‘Perfectly. And I also have word that the Aedui noble who commanded half a dozen supply wagons from Dardon in the east threw in his lot with our forces and turned the whole column over to the commanders of our other camp. Our armies will both eat well tonight, while the Romans continue to starve.’

Vergasillaunus heaved a sigh of relief. ‘You still will not engage the Romans? Even though they starve and we must near their numbers?’

The king shook his head. ‘The Romans are tricky and tenacious. We know them of old. To be certain of victory we must overpower them completely. To try and to be uncertain of victory is to risk all we have done for the sake of impatience. See how the Aedui begin to fall to our banner, now? Soon their leaders will follow suit, and when we have them with us, they will bring dozens of other wavering tribes with them. Then we will have men enough to swamp Caesar. Patience, cousin.’

‘And if Avaricon falls?’

Vercingetorix scratched his neck. ‘The Bituriges will hold, especially with Cavarinos and Critognatos among their number. And should the worst happen and it does fall, it is little more than a setback in the grand scheme. We only came here to mollify the chieftains. I would have left well alone, for the Aedui continue to be my prime concern.’

* * * * *

The sound of a cornu blaring out the call for the third watch split the wet night, cutting through the fine mizzle that did its best to douse the torches and camp fires of the Roman army. Three officers stood on the low brow, careful of their footing in the mire, watching as the great ramp touched the walls. Already the bulk of the ramp butted up against the defences and within the hour the last few baskets of rubble and dirt would flatten the final stretch enough to bring the siege towers up against the walls. The Bituriges had taken over the last week to strengthening the defences here, where the ramp rose between two heavy, rebated gates, trying to raise the height of the walls and the towers that dotted them. But it would not be enough to render the siege ramp and towers ineffective.

One of the three legionaries who had brought the officers the wax tablets full of figures and numbers scurried over to right one of the flaring torches that had begun to lean as the mud into which it was jammed loosened. Antonius snapped one of the tablets shut and passed it across to Varus, who shook his head. ‘The attrition among our own forces is getting worse by the day. I hope this ramp is successful, general.’

Caesar’s stomach gave another hollow, unhappy growl, and he cleared his throat noisily in an attempt to cover it. It did not do when in the company of the ranking soldiers to show any sign of weakness, even hunger.

‘Did you hear that?’ Antonius said quietly.

Caesar turned, his eyebrow cocked.

‘I thought I heard a groan, sir?’

The general huffed irritably. If everyone was going to draw attention to the complaints of a shrinking stomach, they were going to be rather busy, given the level of hunger across the camp. He opened his mouth to frame a sarcastic reply, and then he heard it too.

It was a low, unearthly groan. Similar to those of his starving gut, but deeper, wider and all-encompassing. As though Tellus — the mother of the earth — showed her deep disapproval of something.

‘I do not like the sound of that.’

* * * * *

Critognatos peered out over the wall, watching the siege towers as they moved forward a couple of feet under the heaving muscle of hundreds of legionaries who used the vineae to shelter from attacks as they worked, their long ropes wound round huge stakes at the top of the ramp as a pulley system so that as they descended the ramp under the shelters, so the towers ascended in the open. Damn the Romans and their ingenuity.

Cavarinos clambered up to the top of the wall, carefully spooning some of the mutton and juicy broth from his wooden bowl and then, replacing the spoon, dipping some of the luxuriant bread into the liquid, watching it drip and then allowing the Roman army to come into focus behind it.

‘It is time, brother,’ he said, muffled through a mouthful.

Critognatos looked back at him. ‘About time. I have been restless.’

* * * * *

Fronto leaned out from the cover of the vinea, looking up at the defences as he rubbed his aching knee. ‘We’re there, lads. Come the dawn, we’ll be up those towers and onto the walls.’

Carbo looked back at him, his pink face streaked with sweat and rain that glistened in the torch light. ‘Any word from command as to who gets the chance at the corona muralis?’

Fronto smiled at his top centurion. The mural crown was one of the most sought-after military decorations, granted to the first soldier to raise a Roman standard above the enemy’s walls. Carbo, along with the senior centurion of every other legion present, would be twitching to lead the first assault in an attempt to win the coveted crown.

‘The general has not committed himself yet, Carbo. But I suspect he will grant the honour to one of the newer legions or one of the newer legates. We are his solid veterans and he will be looking to boost the morale of the newer men, after the past month of hardship. Be prepared to play a supporting role tomorrow, I’d say.’

Something nearby made a groaning noise.

‘What was that?’ the commander of the Tenth frowned.

‘Don’t know, sir. Sounded like an old building settling.’

The two men looked about in confusion. The soldiers who were carrying the last few baskets back from the walls, as well as the heavy stakes they had used to tamp down the ramp’s surface, had paused, their faces equally concerned.

Another deep rumble echoed around them and their attention was drawn to the ramp’s centre where, turning, they watched in horror as the nearer of the siege towers sank into the ground up to the top of its wheels.

‘What in shitting Juno’s name…?’

Suddenly Pomponius, the senior engineer of the legion, was pushing his way back along the line of legionaries under the shelters, shouting.

‘What is it?’ Fronto barked.

Pomponius spotted the two officers. ‘Run, sirs!’

Around them the soldiers had begun to move, heeding the shouts of the engineer, rushing back down the slope. There was a low groan and a thud beneath their feet and the twin wooden legs supporting the vinea above them sank a few feet into the ramp, tilting the whole structure dangerously.

‘Oh, shit.’

He and Carbo began to run with the others as all around them more groans arose, vinea struts sinking, the timber-and-hide tunnels tilting and coming slightly askew. The whole ramp appeared to be sinking, and Fronto almost lost his footing as a ripple or wave shuddered across the gravelled surface, which dropped perceptibly.

‘What have they done?’ Fronto shouted breathlessly as he caught up with Pomponius, the ground bucking under his feet.

‘Undermining, the clever bastards, sir.’

As he ran, Fronto risked looking back and was dismayed to see that the top end of the ramp had sunk perhaps ten feet, leaving a wet scar of mud where it had previously butted up against Avaricon’s ramparts. There was no hope now of the towers reaching the top of the walls. The ramp would have to be rebuilt, rising at least as high again, if that were even possible with its foundations crippled as they must now be.

‘They’ve tunnelled underneath while we worked, supporting the mine with wooden struts,’ the engineer added, unable to refrain from an explanation. ‘And as soon as we were almost there, they’ll have stuffed their mine with straw, wattle and kindling and set fire to it.’

‘Will the ramp be salvageable?’

Pomponius’ expression suggested that he doubted it, but he made a non-committal gesture.

‘That’s the least of our damned problems,’ snapped Carbo, suddenly sliding to a halt and arresting the other two men’s momentum with an extended hand as he turned and pointed. Fronto and Pomponius heard the discordant honking and booing of the carnyxes just as they saw the gates to either side of the ramp swing open, warriors pouring from them. Other figures appeared atop the walls, dancing flames of torches all along the line.

‘They’re attacking!’ Pomponius said in disbelief.

‘No. that would be suicide. They’re after the vineae and the towers,’ Carbo replied, and Fronto blinked. If the Bituriges gained control of the ramp for even quarter of an hour they would be able to utterly destroy the towers and shelters. Added to the sinking of the ramp, that would set back the Roman assault by weeks and, with the level of hunger the army was suffering, would effectively put an end to the siege.

‘Stop running!’ he shouted.

* * * * *

Cavarinos smiled down at the chaos on the ramp. The two forces that were spilling from the gates were already clambering up the steeply-sloping sides of the ramp, having a great deal of difficulty negotiating the precipitous escarpment, but managing slowly.

Some of the more alert Romans who had been near the top of the ramp and who had apparently realised what was happening had begun to hack at the ropes that held the two siege towers tethered in position, while others had run back to try and heave the wedges out from behind the wheels, allowing them to roll the intact tower back down the slope and out of danger. The other tower had sunk enough that it would not move without a lot of help, but they were doing their best there too, anyway.

‘Archers and torches,’ Cavarinos shouted above the jubilant din on the wall, ‘aim for the shelters. Burn them. Flask bearers, you know what to do.’

The air was still filled with a damp mizzle, and the Roman vineae would be difficult to ignite, soaked as they were, but rain would not save them tonight. All the Bituriges had to do was get a single fire started and it would eventually spread on its own, down the line of shelters and all the way to the bottom.

As the archers dipped the tips of their arrows into the flaring, sizzling torches, waiting until they burst into golden life and then loosing them at the hide-coated roofs, other men flung spitting torches over the parapet and down onto the shelters. At two places on the walls, twin groups of a half dozen men, chosen for their accuracy with a throw, hurled pottery flasks, which smashed upon impact with the timber structures, spreading oil, which immediately caught with the fiery missiles, blossoming into an orange inferno and racing across the first few vineae.

Cavarinos smiled in satisfaction and waved a hand in signal.

Behind him, two more groups of men rose to the rampart top. The first were carrying baskets of splintered kindling, armfuls of broken timber and other combustible materials — a line of men stringing out behind them down to the town from whence they came. The second group hauled a huge cauldron suspended from two stout oak staves, taking care not to spill the spitting, steaming contents. The first group reached the parapet and cast down their kindling, scurrying away to go and fetch more. As the second timber-carrying party arrived and followed suit, the cauldron bearers turned, struggling with the horrible weight, and strained with gritted teeth, lifting it to the parapet and, at the nod from Cavarinos, tipping it over the side.

The Arverni nobleman shuddered as he watched the burning, bubbling pitch sluice down, covering a wide area, immediately igniting the cast-down timbers and running in lava-like burning streams down the slope of the ramp. Three of the legionaries who had slashed through the rope had not fled fast enough and staggered around below, issuing unearthly wails as the sizzling liquid sloughed the flesh from their bones even as they ran, eating away at them.

It was not an honourable or even a pleasant way to pursue a war, but the Romans had begun this, and now every trick had to be utilised.

The slope was an inferno, the tricking burning pitch starting to make the siege towers smoulder. The first men of the two sallying forces reached the top of the ramp sides and emerged beneath the vineae further down, launching an attack on the fleeing Romans and heaving at the shelter legs, trying to tip them out away from the ramp.

It was horrible. It was thrilling in a soulless, dark way. It was their own blow against the besiegers, and it might just end this.

* * * * *

Fronto turned at the sound of his name to see Grattius, the primus pilus of the Ninth legion, pushing his way through the mess.

‘Nightmare,’ was all Fronto managed to shout above the din. Grattius nodded. ‘Yes, legate. I’ve got the lads from my First cohort starting to bring buckets of water to the ramp to douse the flames.’

‘Good man,’ shouted Fronto. ‘You concentrate on that, and on getting those two siege towers back out of danger. We’ll deal with the attackers!’

Grattius nodded, saluted, and began to bellow orders to the various centurions and optios under his command, who ran up the slope, water sloshing over the brims of the buckets they carried. Fronto, feeling a little relief that some of the pressure was now being taken by another good officer and that he could divert his attention away from the conflagration, caught sight of Pomponius and Carbo, standing at the ramp’s edge, looking up at the action further along.

‘Pomponius?’

The pair turned to him and the engineer, soot-stained and damp, saluted.

‘Gather up four centuries of the Tenth. Split them in two. You take one and assign the other to a man you trust. Secure the vineae as best you can. Try to preserve them and repair them if you can. And see if you can get those two towers back out of danger, too. I want as much of this debacle salvaged as possible.’

Pomponius saluted and immediately ran off, pointing at a nearby optio and shouting for him.

‘Carbo? Have you sent word back to the camp?’

It was a somewhat redundant gesture. The attack on the ramp would have drawn the attention of a deaf and blind man, and Caesar — a man who rarely slept at the best of times — would have been watching anyway, but still, some formalities had to be observed regardless of the situation.

‘All done, sir. And messengers to the Tenth. The other cohorts are on their way, now. Your singulares too.’

‘Good stuff. Leave a man at the bottom to direct them as they arrive. We’re going to deal with those bastards.’ He pointed at the Gauls scrambling up the side slope into the lines of vineae.

Carbo nodded with a malicious grin and began shouting the orders. In moments, the call had been taken up by the musicians and standard bearers, and units of tired, grubby and soaked men from the Tenth began to fall into units.

Taking a position alongside a heavy-set optio he did not know — and who must therefore be a recent draft or promotion during his absence — Fronto drew his elegant, decorative blade and ran up the sheltered line of vineae to where he could now see the Gallic sally party launching into a group of beleaguered legionaries beneath a vinea that was leaning out over the side. The Romans were armed with swords, but devoid of armour, helms or shields, due to having been hauling around baskets of rocks.

‘Come on, lads. Get ‘em.’

A few moments of deep rasping breaths as he ran, and Fronto launched himself at the nearest of the Gauls, slamming his sword point first into the man’s side, angled slightly downwards under the arm and as high up as he could strike, feeling only minimal resistance as it grated along the bone and plunged deep into lung and heart. The Gaul gurgled as he turned wide eyes upon his killer and a black-red gobbet choked from his open mouth. Fronto hauled him away and the body tumbled out over the open ramp side as he ran at the next man, who had turned to meet this new threat. He felt a man move at his left and saw a heavy shield smash forward and down to shatter the bones of a Gaul’s foot, then back up, pushing the man over the edge and down the steep incline. At the same time, a man with the feathered and crested helmet of an optio appeared at his right, stabbing and slashing like a madman. Fronto felt a faint tinge of annoyance as the man jabbed out at Fronto’s own opponent. But how could he blame the optio, really? Fronto didn’t know him, but as far as the man was concerned he was just trying to help his legate. After all, few legates ever involved themselves in the action.

Pommel-bashing the reeling man in the face, Fronto pushed forward. The press of the Gauls was quite heavy and a moment later he was in the mass of men, hacking, stabbing and slashing at any unprotected flesh, knowing his own soldiers were now behind him. He felt a slash across his upper arm, and another one across his knuckles, though neither would be deep enough to need more than a light binding afterwards.

The press opened up a little under his onslaught, his men behind him also causing havoc among the Gallic raiders. Fronto stabbed hard and his latest opponent screamed and fell back and to one side, the sword fast in his chest. Fronto struggled to keep his grip and suddenly, as he was pulled forward by the falling body, trying not to let go of the hilt, a big shape loomed in front of him. His eyes widened as he took in the heavy-set warrior with a chieftain’s gold and bronze accoutrements, a thick beard and a silver serpentine arm-ring. He had only a moment of recognition as the big Gaul snarled at him and raised his sword to bring it down and split Fronto’s skull in half.

He’d seen this noble so many weeks ago, up at Vellaunoduno, when the astute Arvernian who had negotiated the surrender had left southwards with the survivors. The brothers. How stupid was he to have let them go, when now…

He closed his eyes. His sword was still stuck in the limp form. His other hand was empty and trapped by his side in the press. The renewed crush of Gauls prevented him from ducking back or to the side out of the way. Nothing he could do to avoid that Damoclean sword poised above his head, ready to fall and end his life.

Nothing happened. It had been two heartbeats. Long enough for that sword to have fallen and split his brain in half. His eyes shot open and he stared at the big chieftain before him, whose own eyes had widened. The raised sword fell from the man’s hands and the big Arvernian toppled to the side, tumbling down the steep ramp. Behind him another Gaul stood, braced, a bloodied spear in his hands.

It was only when Samognatos winked at him that Fronto recognised the Condrusi scout he had sent back with the fleeing Gauls that day in Vellaunoduno. He stared, but Samognatos was already gone from sight, ducking back into the press, getting himself out of immediate danger.

‘Was that who I think it was?’ asked Palmatus, suddenly arriving at his side and bending to help free Fronto’s sword.

‘It was.’

Fronto felt himself turned by his singulares officer.

‘Kindly stop pissing off into danger without letting your guard know first, you knob-head, sir. You get stuck with a spear and we don’t get paid!’

Fronto stared into Palmatus’ grinning face.

‘We’ve got them on the run,’ the former legionary said. ‘And the flames are dying down in most places.’

Fronto heaved a sigh of relief and looked up into the damp, dark sky. Faint lighter streaks were visible in the clouds above, despite the billowing smoke rising from the ramp where the flames were being doused with endless buckets of water. The silhouettes of the two siege towers were gradually moving back down the ramp, one faster than the other, which was having to be extricated from the sunken gravel as it moved.

‘It’ll be getting light soon. Things are coming under control here. But this was damned close, Palmatus. They almost stopped us completely tonight.’

‘Almost, but not quite.’ The press of Gauls had been driven back, now that more and more men from the Tenth were arriving on the scene. Effectively, the two men were in the clear as that optio who’d been at his side took to pushing the last few enemies back. Most were now scrambling desperately back down the ramp to the gates that were being closed even as they ran. Fronto spotted one man fleeing and was not surprised somehow to see that it was the big bearded chieftain, clutching his wounded shoulder as he made for the safety of the gate. He hoped Samognatos had made it back safely and not been noticed jabbing another Gaul.

‘Wonder what they’ll try next?’

Palmatus crouched, picking up a broken spear, the glinting Gallic point narrow and tapering, only a foot of ash below it. The ex-legionary licked his lips and raised it in the manner of a throwing knife. Fronto followed the man’s glance. On the wall above the gate stood an unarmoured Gaul, hurling pots of combustible liquid into the mess of the ramp, trying to reignite the place. One of the pots hit a legionary and what might have been tallow spattered across him. The soldier, his eyes wide in panic, stepped quickly away from the fire he had been putting out and ducked under the cover of the nearest vinea, stripping to the skin to be rid of the mess before a stray flame caught him.

Palmatus exhaled slowly and remained perfectly still. Then, with the sharpness of an attacking cobra, the man hurled the spear point. It slowly revolved in the air as it passed the twenty-some paces to the wall-top nearby. Fronto nodded in appreciation as the spear hit the pot-throwing man, haft-first, admittedly, but hard enough to send him flying from the wall.

‘Nice throw.’

‘Masgava’s been teaching me a few things.’

‘Ah… he has a new apprentice, then.’

Another Gaul appeared in the same position and Fronto grinned at Palmatus. ’Bet you can’t do it twice.’

‘Watch and learn, sir.’

Crouching, the bodyguard retrieved a dropped spear and snapped the head from it over his knee, leaving another foot-long shaft of elm.’

He hefted it and took aim. The throw was wild and a gust of air took it off course. Palmatus clicked his tongue as he watched his missile fall away into the dip, but blinked in surprise as the man on the wall, standing and holding aloft a new flask to throw, was suddenly struck so hard he was hurled back over the wall. The two Romans looked around for the source of the missile and laughed as they saw a pair of artillerists reloading a scorpion a few paces away, dragging back the string with the ratchet ready for a second shot. They were fast… truly efficient at their job, and they were almost ready to fire again even as a third Gaul clambered into position, a friend passing him a pot to throw.

‘Don’t fancy his chances,’ Palmatus grinned. Fronto nodded.

‘Come on. I need a drink.’

They turned their back on the walls to make their way back down the slope but heard the tell-tale twang, thud and whish of the scorpion firing and a cry of pain from above.

‘Told you.’

Chapter 9

Avaricon

‘You know they won’t hold out much longer,’ complained Gannascos of the Bituriges, earning a round of agreement from his fellow tribesmen and a few other sympathisers. Vercingetorix fought down his irritation, his features made menacing by the flickering light of the fire and the braziers in the tent. Sleep was beginning to appeal.

‘Avaricon is still well-provisioned and its defences hold. Moreover, the defenders have set back the Roman attack by weeks, and Caesar does not have weeks before his army mutinies through hunger. They are close to starvation. Avaricon can hold long enough.’

‘The Romans nearly had them yesterday.’

‘But they did not. Your fellow Bituriges in the city fought them back with strength and ingenuity. If they can continue to do so, the Romans will have no choice but to lift the siege. At this point in the proceedings, the Romans can only achieve victory before they starve if the Bituriges allow them. So what would you have me do?’

Gannascos’ upper lip twitched. A tic was affecting his left eye too, and the combination was making his face appear to ripple. ‘We are strong still. Caesar is weak. We should attack!’

The Arverni king rolled his eyes. ‘Clearly you have not put much thought into that suggestion. Would you care to weigh up the options before making yourself look foolish in front of your peers?’

The tic increased in pace and strength as the Biturige noble bridled.

‘You listen to me, Arverni king…’

‘No. You listen to me. We have just over forty thousand men here, and they are mostly cavalry. Have you looked about yourself and at Caesar’s position? We are in a land given to swamp and marsh in any low-lying area. There are three peaks among the marsh. We occupy one, Caesar another, Avaricon the third. To effectively launch a strong attack on Caesar we would have to attack from the east, since he is bounded by river and swamp and the besieged city in all other directions. That means we would be limited to perhaps a mile-wide corridor. What do you think Caesar will have done there?’

One of the other lesser chieftains cleared his throat. ‘Defences.’

‘Precisely. My scouts tell me that direction is heavily fortified, particularly against cavalry, for Caesar knows well our strength. And Caesar has eight legions and their auxiliary support, plus his few regular cavalry. Their numbers are, even at a minimum, the match of ours. Yes, they are starving, but they are also tightly secured behind strong defences. An attack by us would be throwing away men as though casting stones into a lake. If you wish to attack Caesar, I will not stop you, but you will not take the Arverni or our clients on your doomed escapade. The least tactician among you should be able to see the foolishness of such a course of action.’

‘Then we wait?’ the irritated noble snapped to hide the colour rising in his cheeks.

‘We wait for Caesar to break off his siege. Then we resupply from Avaricon, and then we can move against him if need be, though I am still inclined to wait upon the Aedui, for they are the key in this war. In the meantime, if you fear for your townsfolk, Gannascos, have a single man negotiate the swamp and take word to them. Tell them that if they wish to flee the city and they can manage the swamps, they are welcome at our camp.’

* * * * *

The gathering of Biturige warriors hefted their weapons and wrapped their goods into bags they could carry on their shoulders. Cavarinos sighed as he leaned on the rail in front of the house he had called home now for the weeks he had languished in Avaricon.

‘You truly intend to leave?’

‘This place is doomed. We go to join the army.’

The Arverni noble rolled his eyes. ‘Avaricon will be doomed if its fighting men sneak out in the last hour of the night to wade through swamps and leave its women and children to fight off the Romans.’

Next to him, Critognatos shook his head and winced at the pain from the tightly-bound wound in his shoulder where some unseen foe had stabbed him in the press on the ramp. ‘There are less than a hundred of them. They will make no great difference to the manning of the walls, but a hundred less mouths to feed will enable us to withstand the siege for longer.’

‘It just means that the Romans will find more grain waiting for them when they take Avaricon because we are short of men!’

‘Teutatus, Taranis and Anvallus preserve you,’ offered one of the warriors. ‘We must go now, while the dark still conceals our passage.’

‘Let them go,’ Critognatos grunted.

‘No.’ Both men turned to see a woman standing in the doorway of a house across the street. She was a commoner in ragged clothes and with tangled, matted hair, but the fire in her eyes and the strength in her voice gave her a strange nobility to Cavarinos’ mind.

‘What?’ snapped one of the warriors in the street.

‘You would flee like cowards and leave your womenfolk to fight? I say no.’

‘It is not your place to question us, hag!’

The woman folded her arms defiantly. ‘Then consider this: for you to leave, we have to unbar and unblock one of the gates. Without the bridges, you will have to use one of deer trails through the marsh. All it then takes is for one Roman scout to see you and then Caesar is aware of the trail. Then we are in twice the peril. I say no. A hundred cowards fleeing could cost us our chance of survival.’

Cavarinos blinked at the woman. There was no denying her logic, and he could see the same thought dancing around the expressions of the warriors gathered in the street. He looked at his brother, and even Critognatos was nodding at the sense of it.

‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘No one leaves.’

‘How will you stop us, Arvernian?’

‘I will stop you,’ the woman snapped. I, and the others. We will tell the Romans where you are, so that they can pick you off in the swamp. What is it to be, Eridubnos, son of Garo the fisherman?’

The warrior narrowed his eyes, his whole body trembling with anger, but he said nothing. Other men and women, both noble and commoner, young and old were appearing in doorways, and a knot of them had gathered blocking the street ahead with folded arms.

‘Drop your bags and get to the walls,’ Cavarinos said quietly but firmly. ‘Dawn is not far off, and the light will bring with it fresh hell.’

* * * * *

Fabius and Furius stood in the awning of the latter’s tent as they helped each other into cuirasses and baldrics, passed over helmets and swords. Between moments of labouring into uniform, the two tribunes from the Tenth legion peered out into the deep grey and the torrential rain that had begun with the rising of the sun and as yet showed no sign of letting up. Blown sheets of rain gusted across the hillside.

‘I will be glad to leave Gaul, whether we win the place or lose it,’ Fabius grumbled.

‘I’ve never known a place with such depressing spring weather,’ agreed his friend, and reached out from the shelter of the leather flap to allow the falling rain to blatter on his open palm. ‘It’s a wonder the whole bloody place doesn’t wash away into the sea.’

‘But in summer it can get damned hot,’ Fronto muttered as he stepped into view from the tent’s side, his cloak wrapped tight around him, his crest looking soggy and limp. His face bore that tell-tale expression of little sleep and regretful hangover.

‘I can’t believe he’s got soldiers working in this,’ Furius said quietly. ‘The men are already feeling restive and bleak after that debacle last night.’

The three men peered out into the downpour. A rumble of thunder rolled over the hills to the north, as if to highlight the misery. Avaricon was only barely visible through the grey sheets of water, a darker shape rising through the dismal air. Small detachments of men were just visible moving about on the ramp — four centuries had been committed and told to take it slowly and carefully. Their remit had been an attempt to repair the minor fire damage to the towers, straighten the vineae, replace the pulley ropes and fill in the sunken pits in the ramp with baskets of gravel. They were not to engage the enemy, and were to keep themselves safe, even if it meant slow work. After all, there would be no missiles from the walls in this weather.

‘Caesar is never a predictable man,’ Fronto reminded them. ‘And therein lies the reason for my visit. The senior officers of the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth have been called into a meeting. The general wants to see us all as soon as. Due to my… circumstances… we’re already late.’

The two tribunes finished adjusting their armour, threw the heavy wool cloaks about them and nodded to their commander. Taking a preparatory breath, the three men stepped out into the battering rain and hurried across the gloopy mud to the general’s tent, where Aulus Ingenuus and two of his men gestured for them to enter without challenging them.

As well as the commanders and officers from the four named legions the rest of the staff were present, as well as the legates from the other legions. It came as no surprise to Fabius and Furius that they were the last to attend. Rare was the meeting for which Fronto was on time, and word was that he had spent three of the five hours the army had rested since the night’s chaos drinking with Antonius, which was always a recipe for disaster and usually ended up with Fronto in a bad mood.

‘Good. Now we’re all here,’ Caesar said pointedly, his eyes lingering on Fronto for a moment, ‘time to explain the morning’s plans.’

The officers shuffled slightly in the expectant silence. Every man present had assumed that the day would go on as it was, small units repairing the damage so that the army was in a position to re-build the ramp to the correct height when the storm finally passed. A crack of thunder slightly closer filled the silence.

‘I have given the Bituriges what they expect,’ Caesar announced. ‘Small repair work. Tired, unhappy men trying to put things right.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘Enemy numbers on the wall are somewhat thin this morning, having committed only enough watchers to keep an eye on the workers below, while the rest shelter from the storm in houses. Now, seemingly, is our time to strike.’

Antonius turned a frown upon the general. ‘Respectfully, Gaius, can you not hear the foul mood of Jove out there? The gods grumble and moan.’

‘I would suggest that the grumbling out there is aimed at the Gauls, Marcus. Do not forget that they worship Jove as Taranis. That noise is the gods telling the inhabitants of Avaricon that their time is come. And it is.’

The general ignored the doubt in his friend’s face and slapped his palms on the table. ‘We are faced with failure, gentlemen, but the gods have dropped a gift in our lap and we must accept it, lest we lose all. The engineers tell me that last night’s troubles set us back more than a week. Probably two. The ramp will have to be strengthened from the base up before it can be significantly raised. I am sure I need to point out to no one that in two weeks our army will have starved to death or deserted. The men are at their breaking point and, while I could instil fear in them and keep them in line for a few more days, I will not do that, for who can blame them? Starvation is a terrible thing and we are all desperately hungry. I hear mutters of withdrawal even from the officers.’

As the assembly looked at one another suspiciously, Caesar shrugged. ‘No blame. I sympathise with the sentiment… but I will not abandon Avaricon. We cannot. And we cannot afford to wait. So you see our position: we have to do something, and we have to do it now. And the gods have seen fit to give us a storm for cover.’

He stood, straightening, his stomach gurgling unhappily as if to support his words. From a bag on the table, he withdrew two military decorations and placed them upon the polished timber in front of everyone. The officers stared at the two mural crowns, glinting and shining, freshly made, apparently.

‘Corona muralis. Two of them. One for each side of the ramp. In half an hour, the strongest and best men of these four legions will filter into the vineae tunnels at either side and creep up the ramp. The rain and grey miasma will hide them, and if they are quiet, we can fill the tunnels with the best men in the army without alerting the Gauls. In the last hour I have had four new siege ladders manufactured, with the extra height to touch the wall tops. They will be transported under the vineae to the ramp top. At a signal, they will all be raised and the men will take the walls and the city. The first man from each line of vineae who can raise a standard in victory will have one of these prizes. And every man in the army will have free reign when the city falls. Permission to loot to their heart’s content, with the exception of food. All food will be gathered and then dispensed by the quartermasters. Tonight we will eat in Avaricon.’

Someone’s stomach filled the satisfied silence with a long, low rumble.

* * * * *

Fabius and Furius stood pressed in the ranks of the Tenth’s leading century. Just as every other legate of the four veteran legions, Fronto had immediately grabbed Atenos and Carbo and begun separating out those who were at less than total fitness, largely due to hunger, exhaustion and the illness endemic of the wet Gallic spring. Atenos then weeded out those he didn’t think capable of a swift climb or who were too noisy to move subtly into position. The result was near seven hundred men, all fit and strong, despite current conditions, and the other legions had put forth roughly similar numbers.

Every man present had had the prospect of the coveted mural crown dangled before him as extra incentive to end the siege in short order, and each man of each legion currently huddled in the shelter of the vineae lines was hungry not only for food, but for success — desperate to be the first man to raise the sign of Rome above the wall. The signifers stood a good chance, of course, for they would already be carrying the standards of the legions and would be easily spotted by the officers. However, in these situations it was rare for the standard bearers to live long enough to do so, and often the vexillum or standard was raised by the first man to have bloodied his blade enough to clear a space.

The two tribunes were effectively the highest ranking officers here. None of the legates were present. Fronto had argued, of course, but since his old knee had started to play up again on damp days despite his high level of fitness, there was a distinct possibility that his knee would give way as he climbed the ladder, imperilling everyone. And none of the other legions’ tribunes or legates would stoop low enough to join the ordinary soldiers in such an action. Not so: the pair from the Tenth.

Furius elbowed aside a man he considered to be standing too close. The entire press was tight, of course, keeping ready and out of sight of the Gauls on the walls above. Narrowing his eyes at the man, Furius noted the naked hunger in the man’s expression.

‘Keep your grubby hands off the standard. That corona’s mine.’

Fabius rolled his eyes. ‘The important thing is for Avaricon to fall,’ he reminded his friend.

‘Absolutely. And for me to be waving the flag above it when it happens.’ He pointed a warning finger at the legionary, who managed to look back at him both deferentially and defiantly at the same time, in an award-winning expression.

‘Leave the standard to me or spend a year digging shit-pits. Got me?’

‘Ignore him, soldier,’ put in Fabius with a grin, but Furius continued to wag his finger threateningly.

Somewhere back in the camp, a single cornu blared out a long, protracted ‘booooo’, which was quickly taken up by several other musicians.

‘That’s it,’ Fabius said loudly, as the siege ladders were passed over his shoulder to the men at the front, a couple of ranks ahead of the tribunes. Being at the front was the most dangerous place to be, while being too far back pretty much put you out of the running for the corona, and Furius, who had narrowly missed winning that very decoration at Jerusalem under Pompey a decade earlier, had positioned himself carefully, unwilling to pass up the same chance twice.

Moments later, the ladders were rising up against the wall and falling into place, the foot-long iron spikes protruding from the bottom jammed into the ground to prevent slippage. Even before the wooden tip had clattered against the stone of the wall the first legionary had his foot on the bottom rung, sword still sheathed so that he had a free hand to climb while the other held his shield up to protect him from falling missiles. As the men began to climb, the engineers at the very front, even ahead of the ladders, ran forward with their hammers and ringed iron pitons.

The shout of alarm went up on the wall top at the sight of the first ladder arriving and the defenders were immediately struggling to push the ladder out, shouting for their comrades to aid them on the walls and to bring the forked sticks to push away the offending siege equipment.

The left-hand of the two ladders among the Tenth began to push away from the wall, rising to the perpendicular, causing shouts of panic from the legionaries halfway up it. The engineers were busy hammering the pitons into the visible ends of the logs that formed the framework of Gaulish city walls. As two of them helped pull that swaying ladder back against the wall, other men fed thick ropes through the iron ring-pitons driven into the wall, then looped the ropes around the ladders and pulled them tight, tying them off and effectively holding the ladders against the walls, no matter how hard the defenders pushed. It was a satisfying technique put forward by Mamurra — the siege master — using the Gauls’ walls to anchor the ladders that would scale them.

And then in the press of men, Fabius found himself at the ladder and stepped aside as best he could in the press to allow Furius up first. The second tribune nodded his thanks and slammed his foot on the rung, ripping his sword free as he climbed since he, like his fellow tribune, carried no shield as a standard part of his uniform.

The two men swept up the ladder as fast as they could. A scream echoed from above and a flailing body fell past, his shield following on, to crash down to the ramp, where he thrashed and twitched. The tribunes paid him scant attention, concentrating on climbing up towards the cacophony of battle above. Fabius glanced up past his friend and spotted the Second century’s standard bearer two men above them.

The ladder shook wildly as the defenders renewed their attempts to push it away from the wall, and for a panicky moment Fabius lost his grip, quickly recovering it. The man above them was less fortunate, slipping and disappearing past them with a cry that ended in a thud and silence.

The standard bearer reached the top and Fabius was surprised to see the man disappear over the parapet suddenly with a squawk, pulled there by the defenders, presumably.

And then the world exploded into frantic action.

Furius was up and clambering over the top, Fabius right behind him. The ladder to their left was still in trouble, the men clambering up it meeting stiff resistance at the top and failing to make headway onto the wall. At the top of this ladder an arc of dead men — both Gaul and Roman — surrounded a killing zone, in which blades clashed and shields crashed. More and more of the Bituriges were arriving from the city below, joining the fight, though more Romans reached the ladder top every moment, evening the numbers as they grew. Fabius saw the standard bearer take a horrible blow to the face from a broad-bladed sword, slicing deep, horizontally through nose, cheeks and eyes and leaving a trench in the dying man’s head.

The standard fell, and Furius was straight at it. Fabius leapt after him, parrying a blow that should have taken Furius’ head off as he ran with single-minded purpose. The warrior lunged at him again and Fabius was forced to sidestep to deflect the blow, almost toppling back over the wall until the next legionary over the parapet pushed him back away. Three more clashes of blades and Fabius saw his opening, dipping low and driving his blade in just above the man’s hip, through his gut and up to pierce his heart.

He looked up to see Furius in trouble, turning aside blow after blow, mostly through blind luck, as he worked to free the standard from its dead bearer’s fingers. Leaping forward, Fabius slammed his sword into the attacker’s side, giving his friend a moment’s respite. The Gauls seemed to be pulling back under the onslaught, the wall top clearing and a space opening around them.

As he glanced about, he saw a wide area beginning to open around the other ladder, too. Sure enough, many paces over to their right, above the vineae at the far side of the ramp, the other two ladders were in place and men were securing the wall above them. He became aware, over the din of battle, of the cacophonic honking of carnyx in the city below, and realised the Gauls were pulling back, abandoning the walls.

Furius had the standard now and was struggling to find his feet.

‘The corona!’ someone shouted. ‘The corona is won!’

Fabius glanced round to see a blood-slicked legionary standing above the other ladder a few paces to their left, waving a standard from one of the centuries at that position. His gaze turned slowly back to Furius, to see his friend’s face drain of colour. The tribune rose slowly from his crouch, the standard slipping from his loose fingers. His gaze was fixed on the ecstatic legionary waving the other standard in a welter of blood. As Furius took an angry pace forward, Fabius stepped in front of him.

‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

Furius pushed his friend roughly out of the way, but Fabius grabbed his sword hand and pulled at the fingers until he dropped the blade. At least the tribune wouldn’t gut the victorious legionary, now.

He followed his friend, wiping the rain from his eyes and gesturing for the legionary to lower the standard, but the oblivious man was too busy celebrating as he waved it. The blood-soaked veteran reeled as the tribune’s punch connected with his jaw, sending him back two steps before he righted himself.

‘What…?’

‘That was for Jerusalem…’ Furius snarled, drawing a look of utter incomprehension from the legionary. He was still frowning in confusion as the tribune’s uppercut sent him back and onto his arse, the standard clattering away through the rain to the wet wall-top.

‘And that was for Avaricon, you pisspot!’

Furius sagged as Fabius grabbed his shoulders and pulled him backwards, uttering polite excuses to the legionary who lay on his back, massaging his face.

‘You are a mad bastard at times,’ he grinned at his irate companion.

* * * * *

Critognatos thrashed his sword around in the air in angry impotence, the rain ricocheting from his face and armour in a fine spray.

‘The cowards! The gods-forgotten cowards! Who sounded the recall? The walls could have been saved!’

Cavarinos nodded silently. Much as he hated to agree with his brother, it was true. The walls had fallen needlessly, and with them Avaricon had gone. But it was not cowardice, whatever Critognatos said. It was laxity. It was over-confidence and negligence on the part of the leaders of the city who had not insisted on a full complement on the wall regardless of the terrible weather. Had the wall held its usual number of men and been on proper alert, the Roman ladders would never have succeeded and the legions would not have managed to achieve a foothold on the parapet.

Still, it was all moot now. The wall had fallen.

‘We must rally the warriors. We can fight them still,’ Critognatos snapped. ‘We know these streets and Roman tactics will not work here. We can make them pay for every foot of ground they take.’

‘Pointless,’ Cavarinos replied sadly. ‘The city has fallen. All you will do is get more men killed.’

‘Then you advocate flight?’ his brother snarled.

‘Not for the Bituriges, actually. It’s up to the people of Avaricon what they do. Hide? Fight? Run? It is no longer our concern… it cannot be. We have to get back to Vercingetorix and the army.’

‘I will not run when the fight is upon us.’ Critognatos spotted a man with a carnyx over his shoulder running in the direction of the oppidum’s main square. ‘You!’

The man paused, his face flushed with panic, and jogged across to the two Arverni nobles, shaking his head to dislodge the water-logging from his wild hair and moustaches.

‘Here’s what I want: sound a call for your people to muster here. Then form into a wedge. It works for the Romans. Men with the biggest shields to the front, spears…’

‘Crit, he’s just a musician.’ Cavarinos turned to the man. ‘Just muster your warriors here.’

As the man began to honk, boo and squawk through the tall instrument, the noise somewhat dampened by the endless batter of rain, Cavarinos grabbed his brother by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. ‘We cannot stay. If we stay, we die. Everyone here is going to die. Caesar will not take slaves this time… he cannot feed them! Worse, perhaps, that Roman — Fronto — will recognise us and we will be interrogated before we die. Form them up to fight, but then we must leave them to it and run.’

The heavier-set of the pair looked back at his calm sibling and finally nodded, regretfully. ‘You’re right, of course. These cowards will have to die on their own now.’

As the first of the Bituriges warriors began to turn up in the street, Cavarinos watched the Romans filing along the walls, effectively surrounding the city using its own ramparts. ‘We have to go soon, or there will be no escape.’ He frowned. ‘But as we go, we need to fire the granaries, leave the Romans nothing.’

Critognatos grinned nastily and grabbed a local warrior by the shoulder. ‘Form into a wedge as the Romans do. Put your strongest men in the front with the biggest shields to hold the legionaries off. Have spearmen behind in the third or fourth row. As soon as the Romans come into the square, they will form into their usual line. Then you charge. As soon as your wedge breaks their formation, you can kill hundreds easily.’

The warriors looked uncertain but nodded anyway and began to organise all those who turned up. The brothers watched for a while as the wedge formed somewhat chaotically, the constituent warriors’ faces betraying their uncertainty and fear. They would never stop the Romans, but they would do a lot of damage if they held it together.

‘Time to go,’ Cavarinos whispered to his brother, and the pair moved to the rear of the formation and slipped into a side street.

As soon as they were gone the muttering began, and after only a few heartbeats men began to abandon the wedge, scurrying off into alleys, searching for an adequate hiding place. As the formation splintered and dissolved from within, a figure shouldered a spear and ran for a particular alley.

* * * * *

Cavarinos peered at the granaries — two tall timber structures that rested on stilts some three feet above the damp ground, allowing air to circulate and prevent both rot and rats from getting to the precious supplies within. As was usually the case, a loading block stood at the end of each with steps down the side to allow carts to unload their cargo directly into the buildings. The fact that they were by necessity kept so dry made granaries a terrible fire risk, but for once, that played to their design. Critognatos hefted the burning torch he had found in the doorway of a house as they ran, the sizzling pitch defying even the torrential rain to extinguish it.

‘We have to be thorough,’ Critognatos murmured.

‘We have to be quick!’ Cavarinos replied, listening to the sounds of the legionaries moving through the streets like an iron tide rolling over the Bituriges and drowning them in blood.

His brother nodded and clambered up the steps of the first loading block, wrenching at the door of the granary and hauling it open. As the door swung wide, the big man sighed. There was enough grain inside to feed an army for weeks, and this was only one of two granaries. If only they could work out how to get the grain out to Vercingetorix…

But they couldn’t. They’d be lucky to make it away themselves, and the Romans must not have the supplies.

Cavarinos watched his brother standing in the doorway and hissed ‘hurry up.’ His eyes were drawn to a narrow side-street where an older man came running around a corner screaming and then pitched forward, face-first, into the dirt, a pilum embedded deep in his back, bent at the end of the iron shaft.

‘They’re coming, Crit. Get it done!’

Critognatos hurriedly touched his torch to a couple of the dry grain sacks and watched them spring into flaming orange life, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder every time he did so. As he left the building, he spotted a small party of legionaries charging down the alley towards the granaries. A tell-tale racket betrayed the approach of more along the main street, too.

‘We have to go!’ he shouted as he jumped from the block. A crack of thunder split the grey air just above the city.

As Cavarinos ducked out of sight of the advancing Romans, Critognatos spotted one of the locals dithering at the corner. ‘You!’

The man ran across, his spear wavering, a look of confusion on his features which only increased as the big Arvernian thrust the sputtering torch into his hand and pointed at the sealed granary.

‘I’ve lit one. You do the other.’

The man stared down at the torch, but nodded fearfully, and in answer to his brother’s shout, Critognatos turned and ran for the northern edge of the city, leaving the granary street and fleeing for his life.

* * * * *

Samognatos looked down at the torch in his hand and then up at the retreating back of the two enemy chiefs as they disappeared. The Romans had paused in the alley to loot a couple of the houses and butcher whoever they found within, the screams testament to their vile activity.

The Condrusi scout had only a moment of doubt. There was always a possibility the Romans would ignore anything he said and simply butcher him as a local. If only Fronto and his singulares were here. With a swallow of his nerves, Samognatos cast aside his spear and scurried over to the water trough opposite the granaries, placed strategically for just such a circumstance. Without a moment’s pause, he thrust the burning torch into the water with a hiss and a column of steam and, leaving it floating, picked up one of the three buckets, scooping a copious quantity of water into it.

The left-hand of the twin granaries was now catching badly, the interior lit by an orange glow. The other building would probably be safe. The torrential rain would save the second granary if the first burned away, but every sack of grain that could be saved was crucial.

Running across the street with his bucket, he leapt up the steps and flung the water into the doorway. A half dozen legionaries appeared from the alleyway nearby, shouting imprecations at the native with the bucket. One drew back his arm, levelling a pilum.

‘Roma Victrix!’ bellowed Samognatos, waving the bucket, the slogan enough to stay the man’s arm. As the soldiers paused, he pointed at the granary. ‘Help me save the grain!’ he bellowed in barely-accented Latin.

* * * * *

Cavarinos and his brother reached the north-western gate to discover that half the city had had the same idea and were crowding through the open portal. The Romans were nominally in control of the gate — they certainly dominated the wall above it — but the sheer number of fleeing Bituriges was like an unstoppable tide and no matter how many the Romans killed, more managed to get past them. The soldiers above were hurling down pila, rocks and other missiles, killing the escapees even outside the walls.

There was nothing for it. The brothers shared a look, took a breath, and then plunged into the crowd, trusting to luck or the gods, each according to their nature.

The next hundred heartbeats for Cavarinos were among the worst in his life. The sweaty shoving and pushing and the smell of expelled urine and faeces from the terrified natives, some of it let loose in blind, bowel-loosening panic, more from the dead who were unable even to fall to the ground as the crowd shoved around them, keeping them upright in death. And among the press, the regular shrieks and messy spatters as a falling missile struck a target and killed a man or a woman or a child mere feet away from them. The blessed moment of relief as they passed from the torrent of rain and missiles, beneath the wall. And then the resuming of both as they reached the outside.

The fleeing Bituriges were everywhere. Their bodies littered the ground outside the gate, lying in mud and blood, washed clean in death by the downpour. Other, living and panicked locals were struggling through the marshy ground. Some were already sinking in the worst parts. And somehow, a small band of cavalry, clearly belonging to the Roman force, had picked its way round to this side. Not enough to help the attack, but enough to kill dozens and dozens of the fleeing unarmed citizens of Avaricon.

Grabbing Critognatos, Cavarinos pulled him away from the main crowd, scurrying along below the walls, slower than his brother would prefer.

‘What are we doing?’

‘Following that,’ Cavarinos replied, pointing down. Critognatos looked down at the muddy ground beneath them and could just make out the twin-pointed cloven-hoof tracks of a young deer. If a deer had been here then its tracks would lead them to safety through the marshes — a trick known by the locals yet forgotten by the mass in their panic.

‘You should have used the curse,’ Critognatos muttered as the pair threaded their way deeper into the mire.

‘On who? Who was responsible for that defeat?’ Cavarinos’ fingers went once again to the leather bag at his belt. Not for the first time, he considered just undoing the thongs and letting the superstitious piece of junk fall away to be lost forever. In this marsh, who would know?

With a sigh, he withdrew his hand and concentrated on following the tracks.

Avaricon was a setback, but not a critical one. After all, Vercingetorix had not wanted to come here in the first place.

And Caesar’s army was gradually weakening as the weeks wore on.

Chapter 10

Avaricon

Vercingetorix looked around at the assembly of chieftains. A number of faces were painted with bleak hopelessness — mostly those closely tied to the Bituriges, of course. Others showed signs of anger and a thirst for violent revenge. None of the nobles or high-born of Avaricon had made it out to the camp, of course, and only a few hundred survivors had arrived through the endless marshland, including — to the king’s lasting gratitude — Cavarinos and Critognatos, both sodden and mud-soaked, the latter sporting a shoulder wound that put him in no danger but in a miserable mood.

‘Why the sour expressions?’ he asked, a hint of steel in his voice.

Two of the Bituriges nobles exchanged a look. ‘Avaricon is fallen,’ one said as though the world should be in mourning.

‘And so did Vellaunoduno, Cenabum and Novioduno. What makes your city more worthy than they that you expect the Senones and the Carnutes to commiserate with you, yet you speak nothing of their losses.’

He straightened in the strained silence that was their only reply.

‘Avaricon was never my prime concern. It could never have been the prime concern of any man who planned this war with forethought and care. Remember, when you pin me with harsh looks, that I did not wish to come here. I did so because of your hounding. I assure you that had we stayed at Gorgobina, that city would now be ours and the Aedui would be with us. In fact, by now we would outnumber Caesar two to one, and would be ready to come west and avenge what has happened here. Instead, because you insisted that we came so soon, we are weaker than we were, not stronger, and we still have nothing to show for our efforts.’

Again, the stilted silence echoed across the hilltop, given bleak counterpoint by the post-storm rain dripping heavily from the leaves, the world giving off that metallic tang of rain’s aftermath.

‘But those Bituriges among us need not be dispirited. Remember as you watch that city burn,’ — the king gestured to the high walls a few miles distant from which rose a hundred columns of smoke — ‘that Rome did not win this day by valour or right. They won because of their own deviousness and your deceased leaders’ carelessness. We will not allow such an event to occur again. Avaricon should have been burned by us to prevent Rome using it. No. Rome won here because they are treacherous of mind and have surpassing skill at overcoming walls, while we are too noble for such guile and have little knowledge of siege, given that we prefer to meet an enemy on the field of battle and look him in the eye while we stab him in the heart.’

There was a general murmur of appreciation at that succinct — if not quite accurate — summation.

‘I will, however, now reveal to you the one positive piece of news that I have received over these few dark days.’ He waited for the expectation to build and when the room almost vibrated with tension, he smiled. ‘My contacts within the Aedui tell me that we are on the verge of success. Despite our withdrawal from Gorgobina, my spies and agents have done their work well. The Aedui are in a power struggle, with the faction that supports our war on the ascendance. As soon as that decision is made and our man is put in control at Bibracte he will bring to our cause both the Aedui and a dozen other strong tribes. While Caesar still hungers and his army languishes, our army hovers on the verge of becoming an unstoppable force.’

He gestured at the burning city again.

‘Despite our proud warriors’ burning of the city’s granaries, be assured that Caesar will find enough food in the city to feed his army for a week or more. The Aedui need a little longer to foment, and Caesar’s army needs to be made to starve once again, despite this brief respite. It is my intention, therefore, to fortify our position such that the Romans cannot conceivably consider attacking us, yet sit a mere five miles from them, threatening them. We will continue to deal with any attempts to resupply their army, aiding them in their starvation. They will not be able to attack us, but nor will they be willing to leave, given our strength and proximity. As I had originally advocated before I was drawn off to this place, we will continue to starve the Romans while pursuing the Aedui as an ally. Do I hear any dissent on this matter?’

He was greeted again by stony silence. The defiance of his will had proved disastrous once. None of the assembled leaders was willing to risk disobedience again.

‘When the Aedui are with us, we will convene the Gallic Assembly, as the Romans call it, at Bibracte, and every state and nation will throw in their lot and swear their allegiance to us. This will be done at Bibracte, the very centre of power.’

He rolled his shoulders. ‘In the meantime, take your lead from the Roman engineers. Each of the nations present on this hill will be assigned a sector to defend. I expect ramparts that even the Romans would envy. Anywhere not too swampy will have a ditch. There will be a palisade with towers. And inside, other groups will construct timber buildings to shelter us from the weather. We may be here for weeks yet, and we may be tested by the Romans. I wish us to pass every test thrown at us.’

He gestured to Vergasillaunus, who stepped forward. ‘My noble cousin here will assign each leader here his respective area of duty and responsibility. Obey him as you would me.’

With a nod to the assembly, the king stepped out of the centre, striding across to the rear of the gathering, where Cavarinos and Critognatos stood, weary and filthy and wet.

‘Cavarinos, if you would join me?’

The leader of the Gallic army walked off through the throng to the tent raised for him and pulled aside the flap, shrugging off his damp cloak inside and warming his hands over a brazier. As Cavarinos stumbled in behind him, he reached into a bag on the table and pulled from it a handful of glinting coins. Turning, he grabbed Cavarinos’ hand and twisted it palm-up, tipping the coins into it.

‘Roman coins, and not provincial ones, either. No fakes, no clipping. They are worth their face value to any trader. There are enough in this bag to buy a dozen good horses and hire riders for them.’

‘You wish me to hire cavalry?’ frowned the younger man, peering at the coins in his hand, each one showing unfamiliar gods and short-haired men with hooked noses.

‘No. I wish you to take them, along with half a cart-load more, to our friends among the Aedui. You have been among them before. You know our people there. Among the supply carts we took from the north was a wagon carrying the fortune and personal effects of one of their senior officers. It contains armour, weapons, jewellery and furnishings befitting a king, as well as enough money to equip a small army. It is a gift for our people among the Aedui to use to help tip the balance. Cultivate friendships with those most important and play and twist those most gullible or susceptible. Your goal is simple: bring the Aedui to me. They are as close as can be, but I cannot march on Caesar until we have them.’

Cavarinos sighed. He was in no rush to scurry off into the clutches of the Aedui again, but the importance of the task could hardly escape him, and the fact that he was the man Vercingetorix had chosen of the entire gathering was not lost, either. But then there were other issues preying on his mind, too.

‘Is it not time to reveal the curse tablet to the chieftains, my king? The weaker ones waver and knowledge of its existence would bring them fresh heart. The value of the thing is in its effect on the army, not as some mystical weapon. You know that.’

Vercingetorix shook his head. ‘Its prime value for me is that the druids believe in it, and as long as we continue to accede to their wishes, when it is not damaging, they will continue to lend us their support, which brings to our cause the more credulous of the tribes. You say they told you to keep it until the time came to use it? Then that is what you must do. I will not risk pushing away their support.’

Again, Cavarinos sighed. At least he would be given a breather from being under attack by the Romans. To be among friendly tribes and not looking out at siege towers might be quite nice for a change.

‘I will leave in the morning. Will I have a guard with me, considering the cargo?’

‘Pick five men and take them. Any more will draw too much attention to you. And here is an extra carrot to dangle in front of the Aedui: my scouts tell me that Teutomarus of the Nitiobriges is riding to join us with two thousand Aquitanian horse, defying his tribe’s longstanding allegiance with Rome. Teutomarus completes our southern complement. Now, all the tribes who border Roman Narbonensis and once paid service to the Roman senate — the Ruteni, The Nitiobriges, the Cadurci, the Volcae and others — have all flocked to our banner. The Aedui are among the last of the people who still submit to Roman control.’

Cavarinos nodded. If, as Vercingetorix believed, the Aedui were swaying in their allegiance, the knowledge that almost all of the tribes stood against them would certainly go some way to persuading them. A feeling of curious peace crept across him: a week or more without Critognatos’ endless belligerence and stupidity would be more refreshing than anything else.

‘And my brother?’

‘I have other tasks in mind for your brother. As soon as we have clothed, fed and consoled the survivors of Avaricon and taken them into our forces as appropriate, Critognatos will ride to all those tribes within a hundred miles that have committed to us with orders to levy new quotas of warriors, including infantry, in which we are currently a little lacking, and every man who owns a bow and can use it. When we next meet, I will have bled our strongest tribes dry of their warriors. The end of this war is drawing nigh, Cavarinos, and I will not be found wanting when the last battle comes around.’

‘Then I will bring you the Aedui if they can be brought.’

‘I know you will, my friend. There is no one else I could trust to do this. Good luck. Teutatus watch over you.’

* * * * *

Marcus Antonius belched long and loud and, with a chuckle, tried to form the name of Bacchus from the deep resonance. The other officers in the tent snorted their humour, apart from Varus, who had been asleep for an hour now.

‘But seriously, Fronto, your man Samognatos is to be congratulated. He saved enough grain to feed a legion for a week. If he were a Roman he’d be up for a decoration. Caesar wants me to find out what we can do for him to show our appreciation.’

Fronto closed an eye in order to see only one Antonius and shrugged. ‘He’s been very modest over the whole affair, but I imagine a few coins wouldn’t go amiss.’

Samognatos had returned to Fronto’s singulares following the fall of Avaricon, bringing with him the details of two Arverni leaders — Cavarinos and Critognatos — who had been sent to the oppidum by Vercingetorix and who had been instrumental in the impressive attempts at holding off the legions. No one knew what had happened to them, but their bodies had not yet turned up among the dead. Remembering the pair from erstwhile encounters, Fronto felt sure the two had safely fled Avaricon before the appalling aftermath. Despite the order to take no prisoners, a few slaves had been roped up and sent northeast, back to Agedincum. They might starve on the journey, of course, but if they reached the Roman stronghold they would fetch a few coins for the men. Perhaps three hundred Bituriges there in total. And an estimated hundred escaped into the swamps. And that out of many thousands of inhabitants. One could hardly count the dead for the piles awaiting burning were so huge.

Also, the Condrusi scout had brought back estimates of the Gallic army’s numbers in terms of cavalry, archers and infantry, which tribes constituted the force, and even rumours that had filtered through the army of Vercingetorix’s long-term plans. The scout had performed so well in his task that Fronto had taken him directly to Caesar for debriefing, and the general had praised and lauded the man. The meeting had only been made funnier when Plancus had stormed in, spluttering with complaints that his personal baggage had been lost along with the latest supply train, only for Caesar to chide him through a sly smile for being careless.

Additionally, the city had delivered up a goodly amount of financial gain for Rome, and to please his tired and hungry men, Caesar had given up every part of the reward to the army in plunder. More importantly it had supplied not only one and a half filled granaries, but also an extra grain store from a merchant’s halls, masses of other foodstuffs, and a sizeable haul of livestock. The army had eaten better in one evening than in weeks previously, stuffing their faces and washing down roasted boar meat and mutton with wine and beer.

And a small, select gathering of the officers had retired to Fronto’s tent to recover from the exertions of the day and from their belt-straining guts following such a grand meal. Now, as Priscus loosened his belt another notch and poured himself a cup of wine without missing too badly, Antonius frowned. ‘Where were we, anyway?’

‘Palmatus, I think.’

Antonius turned a serious face on the singulares officer and Fronto grinned. ‘Beware. He’s good at this.’

Antonius narrowed his eyes.

‘You, Palmatus of the Pompeian Roman slums, are a festering, disease-ridden pus-sack of a filthy whore’s crotch after a bad dose of the clap!’

Priscus choked on his wine and as the man coughed liquid through his nose and snorted in the background, Palmatus fixed Antonius with a steady glare.

‘You, Marcus Antonius, are an inbred, Curio-humping, dissolute and profligate knob-end, with the grace and charm of a sheep’s rear end after a Sicilian farmer’s enjoyed himself too much.’

Priscus, still recovering from his choking, suddenly exploded in red-faced laughter and, as Fronto caught the look on Antonius’ face, he couldn’t help but laugh out loud. ‘I warned you,’ he grinned.

‘Curio-humping?’

‘Oh come on,’ Palmatus shrugged, ‘everyone within a thousand miles of Rome heard that rumour!’

Antonius’ eyes bulged. ‘Inbred?’

‘All patricians are inbred,’ Palmatus said flatly, his eyes slipping sideways to Fronto, who simply grinned. ‘Nice if you’re aiming it at me,’ the legate replied, ‘but Antonius’ family are plebs, my friend. Like you, but with more money.’

‘And cleaner,’ laughed Antonius, the slight apparently already forgotten by the unpredictable officer.

‘Alright. That’s one to Palmatus, I suppose. Your turn then, man. Try Priscus.’

‘Too easy.’

Priscus narrowed his eyes, as his body still shook with dissipating coughs. ‘Go on, then.’

‘You, Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus,’ Palmatus began, and then grinned. ‘Inbred patrician,’ a pause for Fronto and Antonius to chuckle, ‘are a stinking hog’s pizzle with…’

He was interrupted by a clatter at the tent’s door.

‘Come,’ called Fronto over the sounds of officers snorting with laughter.

The tent flap was pulled aside to reveal the intimidating shape of Masgava, Fronto’s other singulares commander — a former gladiator of Numidian birth, the man was huge and dangerous.

‘Good,’ Fronto grinned. ‘I told you to join us earlier. You’ve a few rounds to catch up on. Don’t take anything too personally, or it’s going to be a bad night for someone.’

Masgava shook his head. ‘Not here for a social, I’m afraid, sir. Message from the general. He’d like to see you in the command tent. Same goes for commanders Antonius, Varus and Priscus.’

Fronto rolled his eyes. ‘The general never bloody sleeps, does he?’

‘I’m not sure I can stand,’ Priscus said quietly, and Antonius rose to his feet steadily, crossed the tent and reached a hand down to help the prefect from the ground. ‘How can you stand too, Antonius? You’ve put away at least two mugs to my one, and I never saw the water jug pass close to you!’

‘Strong constitution,’ Antonius chuckled. ‘Plebeian, you see? Look at Palmatus over there. He’s sober as a iudex, too.’

Priscus glared at Palmatus, but the bodyguard simply shrugged and rose steadily.

‘Bastard. And I’ve yet to meet a sober judge.’

‘Any idea what this is about?’ Fronto asked Antonius as he wobbled to his feet, throwing out an arm to Palmatus, who grabbed it and held him steady.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ the senior officer replied. ‘Though earlier he was debating our next move. Perhaps he’s decided. He was noting the fact that the frost and the cold seemed to have finally given up and told me that rain was no impediment to a campaign. Maybe he’s planning to march us on the rebel army, or draw them out to us, for preference.’

‘I don’t think we’re ready to take on Vercingetorix yet,’ Fronto replied. ‘The odds are still too uncertain.’

As Palmatus and Masgava roused Varus from sleep as gently, yet quickly, as they could, the other three officers stepped out into the fresh air, which hit Fronto like a cart full of amphorae, filling his head with thumping and thought-strangling fuzziness.

‘I fear I may have to be rather sick,’ he announced.

‘Then try and do it on the way and not in the general’s tent,’ grinned Antonius. The three stood breathing the night air deeply, waiting for Varus. The storm had passed just before sunset, leaving the world breathing a sigh of relief, with fresh, cool air beneath the first clear sky they had seen in weeks.

‘He might be right about the weather,’ Priscus noted. ‘Campaigning in this will be a breeze after the last couple of months.’

The other two nodded their agreement as the bleary, yawning form of Varus appeared through the tent’s doorway. ‘I was having a nice dream about a young woman.’

‘Shake it off, then. Time to go see old beaky.’

The four officers traipsed across the wet, muddy hillside towards the large tent, whose doorway glowed with flickering golden light, illuminating the two cavalry guardsmen standing outside. The pair nodded their recognition at the four officers as they arrived and gestured for them to enter.

Inside, Caesar sat in his chair with Labienus and Plancus facing him. The general nodded to free seats, and the new arrivals wandered over and sat. As they took their places, Roscius and Calenus, the other officers on the staff, arrived, bowing, and took their seats.

‘I have made my decision about our next move, gentlemen,’ Caesar announced, rubbing his temple. ‘Despite my desire to bring war to the enemy at our earliest convenience, I received a deputation this evening from the Aedui, and I find my hand forced and the decision made for me.’

‘What news do they bring?’ Plancus asked, urgently.

‘Their state is in chaos, according to our friends. They have two men vying for control, splitting the Aedui in two. They have entreated me to adjudicate and heal their state.’

Antonius gave a loud cough, drawing all eyes. ‘Is that really more important than the enemy, who are encamped not five miles from here?’

Caesar fixed his friend with a level look. ‘Frankly, yes. The Aedui are the most numerous, richest and most powerful of the tribes of Gaul. Over the past seven years, no matter who we have fought, we have been allied with the Aedui. They have sent us men and supplies, and we have made them rich and powerful in return. If we cannot control what happens to their government, I foresee at least half of their tribe running into the waiting arms of Vercingetorix. If you think his army is strong now, wait ‘til the Aedui join him and bring a dozen other tribes who currently owe their allegiance to us. No. We must deal with this immediately.’

‘Can they not send their trouble here for you to adjudicate, Caesar?’ asked Calenus.

‘I’m afraid that’s not an option. By their laws, the chief magistrate of their people cannot leave their tribe’s lands. A sensible law, in my opinion, for all the difficulties it might currently be causing me.’

‘And are you planning to uproot the army and take them along with you?’ Fronto asked, ignoring the pounding of his head. ‘Because I’d not recommend marching off to the Aedui poorly-accompanied. What happens if they’ve already thrown in their lot with the rebels before you get there?’

Caesar tapped his temple knowingly. ‘That had occurred to me. Also, Bibracte is eighty miles from here, which means a side-trip of more than a week even at full pace. So I have compromised. Two legions will accompany the baggage back across the Liger River. The other four, unconstrained by baggage, will accompany the staff and myself to Decetio, which is the nearest Aedui oppidum with a forum space where the council and the rival candidates can attend. I sent the ambassadors back with instructions for the parties concerned to meet us there.

‘You mention only six legions,’ Fronto frowned. ‘What of the other two.’

Caesar turned and pointed at the large map hanging on the back wall. ‘According to the information gleaned from your scout while he was among the enemy, Vercingetorix is expecting a large number of reinforcements from the northern tribes and their absence thus far is largely what has stopped him moving against us. While we move east to negate the Aedui danger, Labienus will be taking the Seventh and the Twelfth to the north, collecting the First and the Fifteenth from Agedincum and the cohorts from Vellaunoduno and Cenabum. Armed with four good legions, he will crush the rebel spirit from the Carnutes, the Parisi and all the other northern tribes.’ He turned to Labienus. ‘You can do this with four legions?’

‘With those four, I could depopulate most of Gaul,’ nodded Labienus.

‘Good. Make a spirited attempt to do so.’

‘And what do we believe Vercingetorix will do while we concentrate on his allies again?’ Antonius mused.

‘He will sit tight in his swamp and wait until we are tired and hungry and he outnumbers us. Thus, once we are done with the Aedui, regardless of what Labienus’ situation is, we will have to draw the rebel out of his camp. As soon as we have the Aedui securely under the Roman flag, we march on his hometown.’

Silence fell across the tent.

‘Thoughts, gentleman?’

‘Even as the crow flies, Gergovia is a hundred miles from here,’ Priscus murmured. ‘That’s a long way. And we might find the place empty. Can we be sure that the rebels will follow?’

Caesar nodded. ‘Would you countenance Vercingetorix reaching an undefended Rome? No. He will chase us, and we will turn and bring battle to him once he is in the open. And if we reach Gergovia before he shows his face, we will have the added advantage of his own oppidum to use against him.’

‘It’s dangerous, Caesar,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘The Gauls can move faster than us unless we leave the carts behind. And if Labienus takes a quarter of the army north, he will outnumber us, too.’

‘Not if we draw new levies from the Aedui while we are there…’

The general turned his gaze on Priscus. ‘And the good prefect here — who already knows the region well from his last year — rides with a small party to find Brutus and Aristius and bring their forces back from Arverni lands to add their numbers to ours. They will bring us back up to our current strength, and they should not be more than fifty miles from Gergovia at the moment anyway.’

‘It is bold and dangerous,’ Antonius said in a low voice, which then cracked as a smile spread across his face. ‘I like it.’

Caesar nodded. ‘Labienus, you will ride in the morning with your two legions. You have brought me unprecedented success with every command I have assigned you thus far. I wish to see the same from this season.’

Labienus nodded professionally.

‘Priscus, select a turma of cavalry and ride for Arverni lands. Find Brutus and Aristius and bring them to Gergovia to meet with us. If we are not there, then travel north along the Elaver River until you find us.’

Looking somewhat less thrilled with his mission than Labienus, Priscus nodded and folded his arms.

‘Plancus, you will take the Eighth and the Fourteenth and resupply at the Boii oppidum of Gorgobina. Await our return there.’

Plancus nodded, apparently not fazed at being given the unexciting baggage duty.

‘So the rest of you, along with the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh and Thirteenth, will accompany me to Decetio to settle the leadership of the Aedui.’

‘Distributing the army around Gaul,’ whispered Varus, leaning close to Fronto, ‘what could possibly go wrong?’

* * * * *

Cavarinos shrank down into himself, attempting to appear as nondescript as possible. The young warrior Litavicus, who had been in the pay of Vercingetorix since the winter time at least and had ridden with Cavarinos months before, had apparently risen in status somewhat, along with Convictolitanis, who now claimed control over the tribe as a whole. Litavicus now commanded a personal retinue of warriors and other young nobles, and it had been a simple matter to insert Cavarinos into his party without attracting any attention. Thus in the day and a half since he had met up with the young Aeduan warrior, he had been at the very centre of events without raising an eyebrow.

It would have been absolutely perfect barring the fact that a stuffy old pro-Roman named Cotus had challenged Convictolitanis’ control and had brought the matter to Caesar’s attention. Thus instead of the entire tribe slipping into Vercingetorix’s army unnoticed by the Romans, the great and the good of the Aedui had been compelled to leave Bibracte and ride for Decetio to have Caesar give his judgement. Cavarinos had been under no illusion that the Romans would be there in force and would exert their control over events, and almost certainly Caesar would come down in favour of the old man, who had influence, connections and an ancient family. Hell, his brother had been the previous magistrate.

The cause of the rebellion had come so close, and then one old fool had opened his mouth, divided the tribe and brought Caesar into it.

And it seemed likely that wherever Caesar went, Fronto would be with him… not that that would be a bad thing. Cavarinos had looked into the legate’s eyes more than once now and had seen not only the steely resolve of the soldier, but also wisdom tempered with understanding. A man like that might be the only hope for a future of peace alongside Rome when they finally drove Caesar out. But the fact remained that just as he would recognise legate Fronto a mile away, so the same could be said the other way around. That being the case, and knowing that the Aedui column would pass under close Roman scrutiny, Cavarinos had subtly altered his appearance over the past day, trimming his moustaches a lot shorter, braiding his hair back away from his face and donning a more voluminous helmet. He had even used some of the white clay mud from the river bank to lighten his hair colour as he dunked his head this morning.

Most importantly, he had removed his tell-tale Arverni arm-ring upon arrival among the Aedui and had removed the leather bag containing the curse and hidden it among his pack. Still, despite those measures, he felt Roman eyes boring into him and hunkered down, keeping his face and eyes lowered.

Decetio was far from the largest of the Aedui’s oppida, but it was certainly one of the more impressive. Scarcely a quarter of a mile across — against Bibracte’s mile and a half — it lay on a very defensible island in the wide and fast Liger River, reached by a strong bridge from either bank, and rising on a natural hill, dominating the river and the plain surrounding it. Its walls were not tall or heavy, but the river gods had given it defences that far outstripped the capabilities of mere walls.

Moreover, it bore more resemblance to a Roman settlement than an Aedui one. The Roman trade along the river had brought it wealth and goods, and with the Aedui formerly being such staunch allies of the republic it had gained a great deal of finance and support from Rome. Some of the houses even had columned frontages, visible over the walls as the streets rose to the central summit.

As he kicked his horse to move slightly faster across the wide, long bridge, Cavarinos felt the attention of the legionaries lining the road on either side.

And then, thankfully, finally, they passed beneath the gate of Decetio and into the city, where they slowly rose through the city’s curved streets to the stone-and-timber forum and temple at the top. At the entrance to the monumental complex, many of the Aedui were directed aside by Roman officers. None of the men, Cavarinos noted with relief, were Fronto. Like the other important nobles that had attended, Litavicus was given permission to enter with a guard of six, and he carefully selected Cavarinos among that number.

The forum had already been arranged by the Romans, who had clearly been here a day or more, waiting for the Aedui. Caesar sat like a king on a heavy oaken throne beneath the tile-roofed gallery that ran around the outside of the temple of Cernunnos which dominated the civic centre. Other less ornate chairs spread out to either side, each containing a Roman officer. And the centre of the square, bounded by a monumental colonnade, held row upon row of crude log benches and two unadorned wooden chairs. There could be no doubt who was the ascendant power here.

A small knot of Roman soldiers without their armour or weapons busied themselves taking the reins of the new arrivals’ horses and walking them across the rear of the space, where they were tethered beneath the colonnade and in sight of the gathering. For a moment, Cavarinos felt the wrench as he dismounted, allowing a Roman to walk off with his horse and all his worldly goods, including a leather pouch containing purportedly the most valuable item the rebel army controlled.

Giving each other appropriately cold stares, bristling with unspoken anger, Convictolitanis and Cotus approached the two wooden chairs and took their seats, their closest companions gathering on the wooden benches behind them, the rest of the attendees filling the space in their small groups. Cavarinos followed Litavicus and sat next to him, his eyes picking out with no surprise the form of legate Fronto a few chairs to Caesar’s left. He pulled the brow of his helmet slightly lower.

After perhaps quarter of an hour, the Aedui were settled, the horses tethered and fed, and the forum filled with a calm quiet as the gates to each side were shut by soldiers.

‘It is no easy matter,’ Caesar announced, ‘to settle such a dispute. I have spoken to the leaders of this oppidum, and they inform me that the choice of your priests is Convictolitanis, who is young and perhaps as yet untried by the perils and treacherous tides of politics. We cannot overlook a choice backed by your priests purely on a matter of age and inexperience, however.’

Cavarinos rolled his eyes, unseen. Caesar was clearly ill-informed. Cavarinos had seen Convictolitanis the politician at work months back in Bibracte. The man was more than able, and probably not as young as he looked, either.

‘Cotus, on the other hand, seems to have the perfect background and experience for the role, though lacks the general backing of your priesthood.’

The Roman general cradled his fingers and for a moment Cavarinos wondered whether he had been remiss. Had he kept the curse of Ogmios with him, he might have been tempted to use it on Caesar. After all, there seemed little chance he would ever be this close to the Roman commander again. Yet something pushed that thought down and away, something Cavarinos chose to believe was his common sense. The curse was of much more use as a talisman to the army, preserved until the time it was needed to drive them on, than as a weapon, which he was fairly sure was an enormous pile of secretive druidic horse shit anyway.

‘I have not made a decision,’ Caesar announced. ‘I considered it to be highly insulting to form an opinion either way without hearing you both out, as well as any of your kin and allies that might have pertinent information for this matter. Perhaps you would each care to enlighten me as to why your case is the strongest?’

Cavarinos looked across at Fronto, whose own gaze passed across the ranks of the Aedui for a heart-stopping moment without settling upon Cavarinos at all. The Arvernian had to cough to stifle a laugh as he watched Fronto surreptitiously scratch himself in a private place before folding his arms again.

For perhaps another quarter of an hour, he sat and half-listened to the politicking going on in the forum. Both men were clearly astute and persuasive, and their reasoning was strong, if long-winded, self-aggrandizing and repetitive. Finally, Caesar held up a hand.

‘Enough, I think. Clearly your cases seem evenly matched. This may require some deliberation.’

‘I suspect he means bribes,’ Cavarinos whispered sarcastically.

‘Time to swing the vote,’ Litavicus whispered back and flashed him a grin before standing. Cavarinos looked up in surprise as the young man cleared his throat and addressed the general and the crowd, sweeping his arms wide in an oratorical manner.

‘Tell the proconsul how you were elected, Cotus.’

The old man spun, throwing a furious glare at Litavicus, who simply shrugged and waited.

‘Explain that remark, Cotus,’ the general commanded.

The old man cleared his throat, sounding slightly uncertain. ‘I was chosen by my brother, who had ruled before me, in a duly-selected gathering of nobles and priests in the sacred sanctuary of the cold fountains at Bibracte.’

‘How many priests can you find to substantiate that claim, Cotus?’ Litavicus grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

‘You dare call me a liar?’ snarled Cotus.

‘Oh I do, old man. I do. You see my uncle is the attendant priest who maintains that very sanctuary, and he states flatly that no such gathering took place. In fact, I have it on good authority that your supposed election took place over a mug of beer with three friends, as well as your brother. It may well have been his will that you follow him, but you flouted the laws and ignored all precedent in your haste. Moreover, since that was two days before your brother’s demise, even if you had been legitimately elected, that would have made you both magistrates at the same time, which, as I’m sure you’re aware, is against the law. One very reason we are here today. That is why the priests favour Convictolitanis.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Caesar with a sharp edge to his tone.

‘Watch and appreciate,’ Litavicus smiled as he took his seat once more. Around the square, nobles rose to their feet angrily, almost all shouting and demanding things. As Cavarinos listened, a number of views were espoused, but the overriding tide was clearly turned against Cotus. He tried not to smile as a Roman officer called for silence and the general spoke once more.

‘It becomes clear that there can be only one candidate for the magistracy of the Aedui. Convictolitanis was elected in a manner that follows your legal and ritual guidelines and, despite his youth, he is the rightful leader of the Aedui at this time. Since Cotus has ignored and twisted the laws to gain position, he cannot be accorded success. It is the rule of Rome that Convictolitanis be appointed sole and legal magistrate of the tribe.’

Cavarinos allowed a shuddering breath to leak from him as he contemplated how close they had come this day to the rebel force losing all influence with the Aedui. Instead, because of a little wicked politicking, Caesar had been manoeuvred into choosing the one man to lead the tribe who would love nothing more than to tear their bonds with Rome asunder. After all the work Vercingetorix had put into the matter, Rome had finally tipped the scales for him and beautifully, cunningly, wonderfully, remained completely ignorant of that fact.

He was smiling happily to himself over the next half an hour as Caesar made further arrangements with Convictolitanis, ordering Cotus to stand down with no further ills befalling him and demanding that the Aedui heal this division and put aside their differences under their one new leader. He barely cared when Caesar asked the Aedui to prepare for war against the rebel forces. He almost laughed aloud when Caesar demanded all the Aedui cavalry and infantry move out to take part in his campaign, manning the Roman strongholds, cities and supply depots, controlling his provisions that he himself might be free to concentrate on the business of conducting the war. But his brow creased at the mention of the next target of that war. Gergovia?

By the time the assembled nobles were dispersing to the accommodation that had been assigned to them in Decetio for the night, leaving only the two Aeduan leaders with the Roman officers, Cavarinos was stripping his goods from his tired horse at the rear of the complex. His steed would still be weary from his earlier ride, and the news that the Arverni capital was to be Caesar’s next target was something that had to reach Vercingetorix’s ear as fast as a man could ride, if he was to save Gergovia.

* * * * *

Fronto watched the crowd disperse and performed a sudden double-take. As his suspicious gaze played once more across the gathered Aedui, he failed to see the man a second time. He couldn’t swear to it, for the man had looked different somehow, but at a push, he’d have been willing to put forward the view that a certain Arverni chieftain who seemed to crop up in the most unusual of places had been among that gathering somehow.

As the warriors and nobles made their way out through the gate and into the city, he watched intently until the last man had gone, but still caught no further sight of the ghost that might have been Cavarinos of the Arverni.

Antonius made him jump with a slap on the back.

‘Nice job here, eh Marcus? Now for a night of rest and then on to victory.’

Fronto stared out of the gate at the dispersing mob.

‘I suspect we did not just make the deal Caesar thinks we did.’

Chapter 11

Close to Gorgobina, five miles east of the Elaver River

Cicero and Plancus shared a look. Though their families were both old names and old money in Rome and they would likely attend the same social functions and vie for political offices back home, out here in Gaul they were as different as two men could be. Cicero was cavalier and cocksure in his decisions — especially when the fault might land with his underlings, some said. Plancus was still learning the military ropes despite his years of command, and remained nervous and defensive in his stratagems.

‘I cannot help but feel that this is a dangerous enterprise,’ Cicero said quietly.

‘I am rather glad to hear you say that,’ replied Plancus. ‘Generally I don’t open my mouth in staff meetings because often someone shoves my foot in it, but marching on the Arverni home city? It is not a good idea. I had a white goat sacrificed by an augur and the portents…’

He shuddered by way of explanation, and Cicero nodded.

‘But you’ve known the general now for six years. Do you see him changing his mind?’

‘No,’ Plancus replied. ‘But strangely, despite everything, I see him being successful. When is Caesar not successful, after all, regardless of the odds? We hitched our personal wagons to the greatest horse in this race, my friend.’

The two officers fell silent and watched as the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh and Thirteenth legions crunched down the hillside to join the Eighth and Fourteenth on the plain. Caesar rode on ahead, typically, in cold, steely glory with a white charger, a red cloak and Ingenuus’ cavalry surrounding him.

‘Will the wagons be alright?’ Plancus hazarded, picturing the wrathful side of Caesar they had all seen when his subordinates made decisions with which he disagreed. The two officers had received word of Caesar’s approach two hours previously and had immediately set the baggage train off back to the bridge across the Elaver under armed escort to save time.

‘Let’s hope so. Fabius and half his legion were with them.’

The two men sat and waited as Caesar and his staff closed on them. The general looked self-satisfied, which boded well for the results of the Aeduan matter at least. As Caesar reined in and nodded to the two legates awaiting him, the four legions continued to descend the slope and fall in alongside the other two.

‘Your force seems diminished,’ Caesar noted archly by way of greeting.

Plancus opened his mouth to explain, but Cicero was already speaking. ‘Five cohorts have accompanied the baggage to the Elaver this morning, general. Given the time it takes to move the wagons across the bridge we decided that saving a few extra hours would be of use.’

Caesar frowned. ‘My map of the region shows a sizeable ford some eight or nine miles upstream. I had planned to take the baggage across there, along with the legions, for speed.’

Plancus cleared his throat noisily, his throat-apple bobbing like a man in a heavy swell of sea.

‘Respectfully, general, the natives inform us that from early spring until late autumn the Elaver is too deep and fast to be forded. Run-off from the mountain thaws, sir. Bridges are the only option.’

The general nodded his understanding, though his frown remained. ‘This will slow us down. Irritating. I had hoped to be well on the road to Gergovia by sundown, leaving the escorted baggage to follow on behind. Oh well. Needs must. Good work, gentlemen. Now let us take the legions to the bridge and cross.’

* * * * *

‘I don’t like it, general.’

Caesar looked across at Fronto, rolling his shoulders, stiff from several hours in the saddle. ‘What would you have me do, Fronto? Commit half the army to support roles, when they are so clearly needed for the fight?’

The legate of the Tenth shook his head. ‘No, sir. I don’t know. I’d have preferred to assign the support tasks to the legions Labienus took north, perhaps. I just don’t trust the Aedui as far as I could spit a rat.’ He raised his face to the sky. The weather was warming daily now, spring beginning to take a firm foothold, but the clouds spoke still of imminent rain.

‘The Aedui are ours, Marcus. Convictolitanis owes his reign to us. He will not forget that.’

‘We make war on a huge army of rebel Gauls, general, led by a tribe who only two years ago we thought our staunchest of allies. And while we prosecute that war, we place our supplies and garrisons in the hand of another such tribe. It’s begging disaster, that’s all I can say.’

‘We have no other option, Marcus. I…’

The general’s voice trailed off as the two Romans eyed the native scout racing back towards them, where they rode at walking pace near the front of the army but off to one side, safely away from the dust cloud kicked up by the stamping feet, and protected by Ingenuus’ men and Fronto’s singulares both. The scout hauled on his reins and bowed his head.

‘What is it?’ Caesar asked quietly.

‘Trouble at the bridge, general. Legate Fabius sent me to request your presence as a matter of urgency.’

Caesar turned his frown on Fronto, who shrugged. ‘What sort of trouble at the bridge?’ he asked the scout.

‘It’s not there, sir.’

The two officers’ frowns deepened. ‘Come, then,’ Caesar said, urging his horse forward and lengthening to a canter as Fronto fell in alongside, Bucephalus matching the pace with ease. The two bodyguard units followed close behind as the men, led by the scout, passed out ahead of the column and between two stands of beech and chestnut trees.

Sure enough, as the river Elaver came into view, the mud-churned plain on the near bank was packed with hundreds upon hundreds of wagons and beasts of burden milling about impotently, five cohorts of the Eighth legion drawn up protectively in neat blocks around the mess. What had once been the wide, strong timber bridge that the army had used more than once to cross the broad river was now little more than a few broken struts and posts jutting forlornly from the rushing waters, the piles shattered, and what could not be broken down had been burned, now little more than charred sticks.

‘This is no accident,’ the general murmured as they slowed to take in the sight.

‘Clearly not,’ Fronto agreed, raising a finger to point across the river. The general followed the gesture and noted the dozen or so natives on horseback sitting watching from a rise on the far bank, distant enough to keep them safe from attack. ‘Who are they?’

The scout cleared his throat. ‘They carry the rearing horse standards of the Lemovices, legate. One of the rebel tribes under Vercingetorix.’

Fronto nodded sourly. ‘Then their army is not far off. They have destroyed the bridge to prevent us crossing.’

‘More than that,’ Caesar agreed, ‘they have left scouts. There are too few there to do us any harm, but enough on good mounts to ride and recall the rest of the army should we commit to constructing a new bridge. If we set the engineers to work, the whole of the rebel army will be on the far shore before we near the bank. And then we will be forced to funnel ourselves onto the bridge and into their waiting arms. Vercingetorix is shrewd. He thwarts my plan to cross and march upon his city. I am surprised he learned so quickly of our plans. He must have moved from Avaricon not long after our meeting at Decetio to achieve this. I knew that sooner or later his spies would hear of my plans, but I expected to be on that bank and marching south before that.’

Fronto had a brief flash of mental image — a face that might have been Cavarinos in among the nobles of the Aedui, and he felt certain now that it had been him after all, and that the man had ridden like the wind to warn his king as soon as Caesar had pronounced judgement. In truth, though, the source of the information mattered not. The Arverni king had learned of their plan and thwarted them. For now, anyway.

‘I will speak to legate Fabius down there, Fronto. You head back to the main force and have them alter course. We march south along the bank. There should be another bridge a little less than fifteen miles south, if our maps are correct.’

Fronto nodded and turned Bucephalus back towards the column.

‘And if it’s still there,’ he muttered quietly.

* * * * *

Vercingetorix smiled as he leaned back in his seat.

‘Your warning has saved our city, Cavarinos. I cannot thank you enough for that. My riders tell me that Caesar fumes on the far bank, unwilling to attempt a bridge for fear that we will have him then. This morning, word reached me that his army moved southwards to the next bridge at Dabrona. They were breathtakingly fast in doing so, given their army and its slow baggage and artillery, and yet they still reached there to find the bridge so long gone that even the embers had died away to ash. I have had no further word yet, but it seems highly likely he will continue along the river to the south, trying to cross the bridges at Macolion and then Sollurco. The former is already destroyed and my men are even now closing on the latter. Beyond that he will be heading south into the mountains way past Gergovia, and his army will be in danger due to the terrain and the huge distance their supplies must travel. And we can simply move easily down to the city and watch him flounder. He will eventually find a way across or around the river, of course, but they will be tired and demoralized by the time they do. So long as we are close enough to move to prevent a crossing, we are in no hurry.’

‘But why do we play this game at all?’ frowned Cavarinos. ‘With the Aedui, we should be able to beat him in open battle. Why not simply commit?’

The king rolled his shoulders. ‘The Aedui may have sided with us, but they have yet to add their strength to ours. Remember that Caesar is between they and us. Besides, I have a mind to teach the Roman a lesson. He seems to believe himself able to roll over any fortress he comes across, but he has never come across the likes of Gergovia. If the Aedui forces join us before Caesar eventually finds his way to the west bank of the river, we may invite him to battle, sure of our numbers and of success. If he crosses first, we will let him dash himself to pieces on the slopes of Gergovia while we wait for the Aedui to join us. We are in no danger, either way.’

Cavarinos narrowed his eyes. ‘Why not just leave Caesar to it? Why bother with Gergovia when we could turn north, slip past him and join the Aedui in their lands? Then we would be strong enough to pursue him and bring him to battle.’

He watched suspiciously as an uncomfortable look passed briefly across the king’s eyes.

‘It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it? Gergovia matters because it’s yours. For all your high words to the other chiefs back at Avaricon, you would never burn your capital, would you? Even if doing so would give us the edge over Caesar, you won’t sacrifice Gergovia.’

‘Cavarinos…’

‘No. Fear not, my king. I shall not tell the chiefs of this. You can cook up whatever excuse you like for them but remember, if this decision comes back to haunt us, that I know. Do not let your pride cost us this war.’

‘You do not believe I can hold Gergovia against him?’

‘I don’t believe that you should.’

‘But you think I can?’

‘Perhaps. You know the land, and it is the strongest oppidum I know of. But Caesar has proved resourceful and ingenious every time he has besieged a fortress thus far. Do not underestimate him.’

Vercingetorix straightened and brushed out his drooping moustaches. ‘You did me a great service in bringing us warning of Caesar’s plan, my friend, and the Aedui are ours now. But we still need to bring them physically to our side before we can crush Caesar, and so I must send you back once again.’

‘Banishment, my king?’

‘Hardly. We need the Aedui, and you are the man who can bring them to us. You know our people there and have seen the workings of their leaders first hand. Go and bring them for me, Cavarinos.’

The tired Arverni chieftain stood with a bow of the head. ‘Very well.’

As he turned and made his way out of the king’s tent, Cavarinos gave a heavy sigh and sagged. Back to the Aedui. And whatever Vercingetorix said, he was sure that the principle reason for his being sent once more was to keep his seditious opinion of his king’s motives far from the ears of the other chiefs. For the sake of his pride, Vercingetorix was willing to submit to a Roman siege rather than burn his own house. With luck that pride would not destroy them before Cavarinos could return with the Aedui.

Damn the man.

* * * * *

Caesar sat astride his horse in the faint mist, beneath clouds that intermittently soaked them, peering at his surroundings. The slight rise gave a good line of sight in almost all directions, with the exception of directly south, where scattered copses and woodland largely obscured the land. To the north, some half mile back, the army approached by the fading sunlight, heading for this strong position to make camp for the day’s end. To the east, the slope disappeared down towards now-untended and burned farmland. And to the west, the land fell away gently to the Elaver River, where twin dark lines of timber fangs marched out across the water, marking the latest destroyed bridge on their journey.

‘Good land for a camp,’ Antonius noted, sitting astride a fine grey mare. ‘Excellent view.’

‘Yes,’ Caesar replied with a bitter tone. ‘We will have a wonderful view of yet another burned bridge, but this time we will also be able to see those responsible.’

Antonius sighed and fixed his gaze upon the sprawling mass of the Gaulish army encamped perhaps a mile from the river on the far bank, almost taunting the Romans with their proximity. ‘We are close to Gergovia now. He no longer trusts us to small scouting parties. Now the whole army readies for us. He knows that we cannot afford to follow the river up into the mountains and cross it at the narrow point. He knows we must cross here or at the next bridge, but we all know that there will not be a next bridge by now.’

‘Yet cross we must, as you say.’ The general shifted his gaze to take in the advance party of legionary engineers with their gromas, pegs, ropes and plumb lines, laying out the basic plan for the army’s massive camp atop the hillside, large enough to accommodate six legions and more. It was an impressive sight. What must the Arvernian rebel think as he watches this massive force day after day?’

A slow smile spread across Caesar’s face and he turned to the gathered staff officers and legates who sat ahorse behind him. His eyes settled on the nearest of his legates. Both were good men — the best for what he had in mind.

‘Fronto? Rufio?’

The two men stepped their mounts forward a few paces to address the general.

‘Sir?’

‘What is your opinion of making camp for the night down there amid the copses and trees instead of here on the hill?’

‘It will be evil to put in adequate defences,’ Fronto said, peering at the wood-dotted landscape.

‘But considerably less windy,’ smiled Rufio.

‘We could fit six legions in there?’

‘Well, yes. We won’t be well-defended, mind.’

‘The enemy are not likely to cross the river tonight. They would be suicidal to do so.’ Caesar gestured to the engineer officer with the transverse crest, who was busy guiding the works.

‘Centurion? Have your men take up their measures and move down amongst the trees. I want the camp down there tonight.’

The centurion turned a respectful, if baffled, expression on his commander. ‘But sir, that land is dreadful for a camp.’

‘Nevertheless, I would like it so. See to it.’

The centurion, still perplexed, saluted and started to call his engineers in to change location down to the copse-dotted plain. As he did so, Caesar turned back to the officers next to him.

‘Antonius? Have the legions fall in down there once the camp is marked out and have them get to work. I want all six legions working on it, since we’re in no immediate danger. Fronto and Rufio? I want the Tenth and Eleventh, as soon as the works are complete, to camp on the eastern side of the camp, far from the river and in the most wooded area you can. We are about to deceive the enemy, gentlemen. It is time we crossed that river. And with any luck we will surprise the Gauls enough that we can thrash them on the plains without having to move on Gergovia after all.’ He smiled darkly. ‘Antonius, fish out your best red cloak.’

* * * * *

Fronto sat in the cover of the trees, the first heavy raindrops of the downpour that had been threatening for hours falling from the leaves and dinging off his helmet, blotting his cloak. In the early post-dawn glow, he could just make out Antonius on Caesar’s white horse, red cloak whipping in the breeze as he led four legions and the baggage on south along the Elaver’s east bank, the force carefully spread out to fill as much space as six legions normally would.

He glanced back at the Tenth and Eleventh, who had taken advantage of the darkness and moved out before dawn, slightly north and east, where they now lurked behind the hill, barely visible from this position and entirely hidden from the army across the river.

Caesar and Rufio stood close by, the rain battering them as they all watched, tense.

‘Now to see if they take the bait,’ Caesar huffed and pulled his cloak tighter about him to keep off the worst of the rain. The three men stood in edgy silence as the muted sound of the legions receded across the grassland to the south, soon to be lost from sight among the trees.

‘The men the Aedui were supposed to send us are taking their time,’ Rufio sighed as he watched.

‘If they come at all,’ muttered Fronto darkly, earning a piercing look from the general. He was about to add something in his defence when he clamped his jaws shut again and strained his eyes in the dim light.

‘I think they’re moving,’ he said, finally.

‘’Yes,’ Rufio agreed. ‘Large units of horse are heading off south.’

‘And the rest of the army is decamping, also,’ Caesar smiled. ‘It appears they fell for our little ploy.’

Fronto took a breath and rolled his shoulders. ‘With permission then, Caesar, I’ll move into position.’

* * * * *

Numisius flexed his arm muscles and checked the knot of the rope around his military belt.

‘Are you sure you can do it?’ Fronto asked, shivering and folding his sodden arms across his chest for the pitiful warmth they provided. Though the weather was fairly temperate, and still warming daily, the deluge dragged down the temperature of those out in it.

Numisius, one of Fronto’s remaining ten singulares, grinned. ‘Bit late to question me now, sir?’

‘Look, I know you can swim. Masgava tells me you used to hurtle around that pool in Massilia like an eel, but it’s less than a year since that arm of yours was smashed to pieces. Are you strong enough for this?’

‘Piece of piss, sir.’

Fronto opened his mouth to question him further but before he could speak, Numisius gave a wink and then threw himself backwards into the water, having carefully selected a deep section to enter. Fronto glanced back at the tree, and Palmatus was there, checking and tightening the knot at the other end of the rope.

Turning back, he watched the pale form of Numisius break the river’s surface and begin to make for the far shore, his arms coming up and over, slicing down into the dark like some sort of machine, tearing him through the choppy water at surprising speed. His head came up to the side rhythmically for breath, and he somehow continued to adjust his angle so that he was pushing into the current rather than across, with the net result that he was making directly for the tree opposite.

Fronto watched in amazement as in just a few heartbeats’ time, the man was clambering up the far bank. How that man could swim! Fronto would barely have managed a quarter of the distance in that time. Of course, he would probably have drowned on entry anyway. Never the best swimmer, he dunked in the rivers occasionally to perform his ablutions while on campaign, but his preferred method of swimming was to lie on his back in the warm basin of a good bath house, wiggling his toes and wondering what to have for lunch.

Readying himself, he adjusted the sword and pugio hanging at his side, fastened to the belt rather than the more usual baldric. It felt odd not to be bearing the beautiful blade he had taken from a villain those years ago, but he would not risk that blade either coming loose and sinking to the bed of the Elaver or suffering damage from the water, and so he had borrowed a standard issue gladius from the stores for today. It and the dagger both seemed jammed in tight, and he had used twine to fasten them down, too, just in case. He shivered in the sodden tunic. No armour or cloak for this task. No shield or helm. Just a tunic, boots and a sword. Still, he was about to get a sight colder and wetter.

He watched as Numisius carefully hauled in the rope so that it trailed along the river’s surface in a straight line, neither sinking too deep nor rising taut in the air, and then tied it off to the tree opposite. Once he had tested the weight and given an affirmative gesture, Fronto nodded and stepped to the edge. With a deep breath, he jumped in, hands coming up and grasping for the rope slung across the river.

The cold was mind-shattering. He hadn’t realised how warm the air had actually become with the advent of spring until the chilling water brought it home to him. It felt as though his blood ran with ice, and in moments he was beginning to lose the feeling in his extremities. Concentrating on the task at hand, he kept his grip tight on the rope as he hauled himself across, slowly but steadily traversing the river. He felt the rope jerk sharply and almost lost his grip for a moment, glancing back in panic to see that Masgava had jumped in and grabbed the line. Fronto wished he had a free hand to grip the figurine of Fortuna around his neck, praying to his patron goddess that the rope would hold their combined weight as he hauled himself onwards.

The journey seemed to take an hour, though it had actually been a quick crossing, Numisius assured him, as the soldier leaned down and helped him from the current, scrambling up the bank and onto the grassy slope. He stood shaking like a leaf for a long moment before he could control his limbs enough to make sure his sword and dagger — not to mention his fingers, toes and ears — were still present and correct.

Stamping his feet to bring life back into them, he watched Masgava clamber up to join them, hardly puffing with the effort, testing his reflexes and unfastening his sword.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know, sir?’ the big Numidian reminded him.

‘Just concentrate on making sure none of them get away.’

The pair watched as the rest of the singulares crossed. Once Palmatus had come over, Carbo, the last of the party standing on the far bank, unhooked the rope and fastened it to a sheaf of pila that had already been tightly bound together. As he gave a nod, Masgava started to pull in the rope, dragging the sheaf of javelins across the river and finally up the bank and onto the grass with them.

‘How many were there again?’ Fronto shivered.

‘Pila?’

‘Gauls.’

Masgava undid the knot and began to separate the weapons. ‘I counted thirteen. There might be one or two more, mind. It was hard to be sure with all the foliage.’

‘Typical Gauls. They can never do anything in sensible numerical divisions like a Roman. What kind of unit numbers thirteen?’

‘That one,’ Palmatus jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the small knot of horsemen the enemy army had left behind to watch the bridge site.

‘I hate this weather. Miserable weather to fight in.’

Masgava smiled. ‘The enemy will be almost as wet as us. Besides, we should be thanking the gods for this rain, not blaming them.’

‘Oh? How’s that?’

‘It if was sunny and dry, those thirteen Gauls would be lounging out on the open grass and sunning themselves. They would see us coming a mile off and ride out to Vercingetorix, telling him what we were up to. But the rain has driven them to shelter in that small copse, and that will allow us to close on them unseen.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Fronto conceded, ‘but I’ll still be glad to dry off later.’

Fronto waited sodden and impatient as Masgava distributed the pila to the other ten men and kept back two for himself. Fronto gripped the pair of weapons uncertainly. It had been a very long time since he’d thrown one, and even a couple of years ago back in Rome, when Masgava had set him on a very gladiatorial training regime, there had been little work with javelins. Plus, despite Masgava’s insistence they bring them, he couldn’t see pila being much use in woodland. Perhaps he might find a reason to discard them yet…

Shuddering in his freezing wet tunic once more, he scrambled up the last few paces of the slope and leaned carefully around the edge of a bushy juniper. The small copse in which the scouts had taken shelter from the weather was perhaps two hundred paces from the river, but Palmatus had chosen the site well. Between here and there lay a low hedge, crossed by a rough track that ran from an abandoned and burned farmstead down to the ruined bridge. So long as they kept low and moved quietly, only a truly alert scout would stand much chance of spotting their approach.

‘Ready?’ he asked the singulares. Each of them nodded or murmured their assent.

Palmatus stepped up to the juniper and with a quick glance at their target, ducked out into the rain and made the ten-pace dash through the open to the hedgerow, disappearing behind it. Numisius followed on, vanishing behind the bushy vegetation after the officer, and Fronto took his chance to sprint ahead of the next man. Despite the shortness of the run, the distance from the enemy, and the added obfuscation of the heavy downpour, Fronto felt the familiar thrill of nerves as he passed the open stretch.

As he reached the cover of the hedge, the men in front were already moving along it at pace, keeping slightly bent to prevent their heads showing over the top. Breathing steadily, Fronto ran on, stooped, along the edge of the burned-out field, keeping his eyes locked on Palmatus at the front, his ears straining to hear anything of the enemy through the battering of the rain.

A quick dash across the gateway in the hedge and over the rutted, worn, farm track, and then back into the hedge’s cover, closing on the copse. Then, quicker than he’d expected, they were there. Palmatus had stopped at the end of the hedge, where it gave way to a ramshackle fence that separated the farmland from the trees. It was a low, partially broken affair that would present no obstacle to the Romans, but it was not for the fence that Palmatus had paused. As the rest of the men caught up, the former legionary used hand signals to silently relay what he saw, given the proximity of the enemy. Fronto concentrated. Thirteen men, all huddled close together and trying to light a fire in the relative shelter of the pines. The forest floor would be largely clear due to the season, but would still be sodden and unpleasant.

Palmatus was now motioning something else: the corral of horses, off to the other side of the copse, away from the river. Fronto nodded. That was at least as prime a concern as the men themselves. If the horses were secured, none of the Gauls could ride for the rebel army and warn them. Fronto turned to see Quietus looming behind, and gestured for the man to come with him. Quietus nodded and Fronto turned back to Palmatus, making horse gestures with his hand and then pointing to himself and Quietus. Palmatus nodded and then lifted his hand, ready for the signal. As he confirmed that everyone was here and watching, he tensed and drew his blade as slowly and quietly as he could, the other ten men following suit.

As Fronto drew his sword, he smiled gratefully and jabbed his pila down into the ground, leaving them behind. Masgava may consider them useful against the men, but they would be of little advantage in dealing with horses. Quietus followed suit.

Palmatus waited until all were ready and poised, and his hand came down in a chopping motion. Fronto moved in the wake of the two men in front, using his free hand to vault the fence, wincing as his knee, still troubled by the wet weather, jarred upon landing, but not allowing it to slow him. And he was running, Quietus keeping pace at his heel. Now, he could see the horses through the trunks, eating the lush grass close to the trees. They had been tethered by thin ropes attached to the harnesses and variously tied off on branches or to pitons in the ground.

By the time they were closing on the beasts, which were whickering and stamping nervously at the sudden commotion nearby, the sounds of battle rang out deeper in the copse, where the rest of the singulares were dealing with the thirteen scouts. Fronto burst from the trees and the rain came back with a force once out in the open, smacking him in the face like a slap. Blinking away the water, he ran to the nearest horse and brought his blade down on the thin rope, freeing the animal, which trotted a few paces away from him and hovered nervously. Quietus arrived and freed a second horse, and Fronto crossed to the next, slashing through the rope.

Again and again, the two men cut bonds and shooed the horses, which invariably danced out of their way and the legate rose from his latest rope, looking around for the next tether. Quietus was nearby, busily sawing through a rope that was thicker and hardier than the rest and had resisted his initial cut. Fronto blinked out the rain once more and opened his mouth to shout a warning.

He was too late.

A Gaul, hitherto unseen at the edge of the woods and presumably set to guard the horses, was on Quietus from behind, that long Gallic blade sweeping out and down onto the big Roman’s neck, where it hacked through the tendon holding neck to shoulder and through muscle, lodging itself in the bone. Quietus gasped, his head tipping involuntarily to the side as his body began to register the fact that he was dying, the spinal cord snapped and blood fountaining from his severed artery.

The legionary’s sword fell from loose fingers as he collapsed to the ground, still spraying lifeblood and gurgling a blood-filled scream.

Fronto drew his pugio with his free hand and advanced on the Gaul, but the man was both big and quick, wrenching his long sword from the dying Roman’s neck with a horrible cracking sound and bringing it up ready. The warrior had a body shield, a mail shirt and a killer’s blade. The only thing he lacked was a helmet, which no doubt rested somewhere nearby where he had been crouched. Fronto, conversely, wore a fine quality russet woollen tunic and held two short blades. He felt woefully inadequate and eyed the long blade nervously.

Memories of his many training sessions with Masgava flashed into his mind. ‘If a man has a long sword,’ the big Numidian had explained, ‘he is limited at close range. Do not be afraid to close on him. The closer you are, the harder it will be for him to use his blade, and he will be limited to using body parts against you.’

Instead of hesitating and keeping out of reach of the long blade, Fronto picked up his pace, throwing himself at the Gaul and praying that the man didn’t have time to hold the sword forth to impale him.

Sure enough, the unwieldy size of the blade prevented the warrior from bringing it to bear in time, and Fronto hit the man as hard as he could, putting all his weight into the charge. The man recoiled only slightly, his foot pushed back to brace himself as he hunched behind the shield. Fronto felt the collision as though he’d been sideswiped by a chariot at full speed, the shield’s rib, which ran down its length, bulging out to a metal boss at the centre, cracking a rib and bruising him instantly.

He had no time to recover. Although the Gaul had been barely shaken by a charge which had already hurt Fronto, the legate knew it had given him a brief advantage, making the man’s sword effectively useless until he could back-step out of the press. He allowed his gladius to fall from his right hand and reached up in a fluid move, gripping the top of the man’s painted blue shield and dragging it down with every ounce of strength he could muster, ignoring the throbbing of his ribs and hip.

Gods, but the man was strong. Fronto felt the shield coming down, but the Gaul was fighting him every inch of the way, the big sword seemingly forgotten as the struggle for the shield raged.

But gradually, finger-width by finger-width, the shield dropped, revealing the chest and shoulder of the warrior behind, the doubling of the man’s mail shirt at the shoulder giving him extra bulk. Up came Fronto’s other hand, gripping the pugio.

The warrior was not done yet, though. Seeing the knife approaching, he ducked his head to the side, away from the weapon, simultaneously bringing up his right hand. As they had struggled, the man had somehow reversed his grip on the sword and now brought it up pommel first, smashing it at Fronto’s face. The legate saw the blow coming and tried to dip his face out of the way but, without releasing the shield, he was limited. The blow landed, not centrally on the bridge of his nose as intended, but on his cheek. He felt the heavy pommel smash into his back teeth and scrape up his cheek bone, drawing blood. Waves of agony washed through him and he felt blood and tooth fragments on his tongue as his mouth opened in a cry.

But he was not the only one yelling out. Just as the Gaul’s pommel had smashed into his cheek, so Fronto’s other hand had found its mark, the dagger driving into the warrior’s neck just above the mail shirt’s collar and driving down above the collar bone into unprotected soft flesh. Through the pain, Fronto could barely see what he was doing, but even blinded by the agony and the rain, he raked the blade and twisted it, ripping it back up through what felt like a tendon.

He faltered and almost fell as the Gaul collapsed, Fronto’s fingers still clamped around the shield rim, and he staggered back, shaking, the rain still blurring his eyes as much as the pain in his mouth. Taking a ragged breath, he spat and felt pieces of tooth come out with the saliva and blood.

Shaking like a leaf, he reached up, wincing at the pain in his ribs as he did so, and wiped the rain from his eyes.

The Gaul was still alive, but was convulsing and jerking as blood pumped from a wide, savage and ragged hole above his clavicle. Fronto stared down at him. The warrior was younger than he’d thought, seventeen or eighteen summers old at most. Ridiculous. When Fronto had been in Spain with Caesar, standing at that statue of Alexander the Great, this man who’d nearly killed him today had been a howling babe! When the Tenth had first followed the Helvetii into this land, the dying Gaul here had probably been running around the fields and playing war games with his friends, using sticks and wicker shields. How long had they been in Gaul now?

He felt very old all of a sudden.

Taking care to knock the sword away from the Gaul’s twitching hand he crouched, turning his head to spit out another gobbet of blood. He looked down into the young warrior’s eyes with an empathy that surprised him, given what had just happened. The young man wore a perplexed expression, as though he simply could not fathom what had happened. Not the defiant dying gaze of a seasoned warrior, but the innocent bewilderment of a boy.

‘I know,’ Fronto said quietly, wincing at the pain in his jaw as he spoke. ‘It’sh all shuch a damn washte.’

He sighed, the last of his aggression ebbing away at this sight. At Cenabum he had released all the tension that had built up for months — years, even, and since then it was becoming harder to find the heart for such killing with every fight. This campaign could not be over soon enough.

The boy tried to speak, but the pain was too much, and he gritted his teeth against it.

For the first time since winter, Fronto actually found himself thinking about that agreement he’d made with Lucilia. Retirement. No more blood and pain. No more living like this. Most importantly, no more watching the light go out in the eyes of mere children.

‘I’m shorry,’ he added, and reached down, quickly and expertly slicing the young warrior’s throat, putting him out of his misery. The Gaul gasped for a moment, his eyes bulging as air and blood issued from the wound, and quickly the life fled from his gaze. Fronto reached down to his belt, felt for the leather pouch attached, and withdrew two small bronze coins, fastening it again. With care, he placed one on the Gaul’s tongue and pushed the mouth closed. Charon’s obol. The coin to pay the ferryman.

Rising, with the pain throbbing in his side, he staggered across to the still form of Quietus and repeated the act. The sounds of fighting back in the woods still echoed across the ground, but it was dying away. He had no doubt that the Romans had won the day — with Palmatus and Masgava in there, the Gauls stood no chance. And the horses were now wandering around the field, eating happily, keeping a distance from the bloodshed.

Straightening, he tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and felt the rain washing his face clean. Two teeth. Possibly three. He yelped slightly as his tongue explored the damage.

Yes, this war could not be over soon enough, now.

* * * * *

Caesar peered down at the Tenth’s legate, who sat on a log with a skin of water, taking swigs to swill out his mouth and then spitting it back out to the grass, tainted with the dark stain of blood in the mix.

‘You have looked better, Fronto.’

The legate looked up and winced. ‘I’m too old for thish.’

Caesar laughed mirthlessly. ‘Aren’t we all, Marcus. But soon it will be over. We have the rebels now. We’ll soon be on them. I’ve set the men about building the bridge, and the recall order has already gone out to Antonius and the rest of the army. By the time Vercingetorix knows we have crossed, two legions will be on this bank and well-entrenched, while the others file across to join us. As soon as we’re assembled west of the river, we can move against him. If he has any sense now, he’ll run for his walls at Gergovia, though I am still hoping he has the pride and guts to meet us on the plain.’

Wincing and grunting with the effort, Fronto rose. ‘He’ll make for the oppidum. Hish numbersh are not enough to enshure him victory in the field, sho he’ll retreat to the shafety of hish wallsh.’

‘I think you need to see my dentist, Marcus.’

‘I think I need a shtrong drink and a lie down.’

‘And you’ve earned them,’ the general smiled and looked around at Palmatus who stood nearby, blood running down from a cut on his brow and making him blink repeatedly. ‘Perhaps you should have the legate’s tent raised quickly and then all of you report to the medicus before you go off duty. Well done, all of you.’

As the general moved on with his praetorians at his heel, and the coterie of staff officers hurrying alongside, Rufio appeared, looming over them with an impish grin.

‘This is why as we age, we let the young men fight our battles for us, Marcus.’

Fronto merely grunted, carefully keeping his opinions of that statement locked behind his teeth, though they be fewer than usual. ‘Where’sh your wine flashk?’

Rufio frowned at him. ‘What makes you think I have one on me?’

Fronto merely answered by twitching his fingers, indicating the need for a flask, and with a grin, Rufio reached beneath his cloak and produced the desired object, passing it across.

‘You drink to your success?’

‘To the fallen,’ Fronto grunted.

Whoever they fight for, he added in the silence of his mind.

Chapter 12

Gergovia

Fronto whistled through his teeth — a habit that had recently become considerably easier — as he looked up at the vertiginous site of the Arvernian capital, sweat running down from his helmet brow, the felt liner soaked. Instinctively, at the twinge of his nerves through his three missing teeth, he reached up under the cheek-piece and massaged his jaw and discoloured cheek. Five days had passed since the fight at the bridgehead, and he still had not had the opportunity to consult Caesar’s dentist, the man seemingly constantly busy. Consequently, the Tenth’s chief medicus had removed the broken roots from his jaw — quite far back as they were and consequently extremely troublesome. Fronto had made sure he was thoroughly inebriated beforehand, and yet had still wept like a baby at the pain. He’d spoken in passing about the matter of false teeth, but at the mention of root-moulds and casting iron replacements that would need hammering into the jaw, he had quickly decided he could learn to live with chewing on the left side only.

‘A difficult proposition,’ Antonius noted, dragging his attention back to Gergovia to the nodding agreement of the other officers present.

The legions were busy over a mile to the west, on a low rise with adequate space, creating and fortifying a camp large enough to hold eight legions, working on the hope that Priscus would soon put in an appearance with Brutus, Aristius and the Narbonensis forces. While the men toiled, however, the senior officers and their assorted guards and attendants had come for a closer look at their objective, a mile and a half from the enemy oppidum, and only half a mile from the nearest Gallic forces.

Once more, Fronto cursed the need to delay for the baggage and artillery. They had moved fast but, unfettered as they were, Vercingetorix and his army had moved faster, securing themselves at Gergovia before the Roman forces could arrive on the scene.

And Gergovia was more than ‘a difficult proposition’. In fact, Fronto would go so far as to label a man mad if he felt the urge to attack the place.

The main walled oppidum was probably the largest he’d seen in all his years in Gaul, covering the surface of a plateau of impressive dimensions: a mile long, half a mile wide and towering at least a thousand feet above where the officers stood, surrounded by steep slopes on all sides — barring the west, which was protected by two conical hills, each impressive in their own right. A man would be exhausted before he was even half-way up that slope. Add to that the heavy arms and armour he would be carrying and Fronto could not picture any force still being in fighting shape when they reached the summit. Moreover, in the past five days the temperature had risen continuously, and that storm at the bridge had cleared all hints of rain — and indeed moisture — from the sky, leaving azure blue with occasional puffs of high white cloud. In short: it was hot, and getting hotter all the time.

Clearly Vercingetorix had not evacuated the civilians of Gergovia, for the town seemed alive with chimney smoke, noise and activity, yet the entire Gallic army lay camped around it, rather than within. The bulk of the forces lay outside the ramparts to the south, on the gentle slope high up, near the summit, spread out over the mile length. More of them were visible on the twin high peaks to the west, too. And a further camp occupied a similar plateau lower down and further south, close to where the Romans watched. This latter rose from the lowest slopes like a fortress itself, upon strong, chalky cliffs, pock-marked with caves.

‘I have no idea how we’re going to take this place,’ Fronto said finally.

‘Ramp?’ suggested Plancus.

‘Too high,’ Antonius countered. ‘For a slope shallow enough to get anything useful up, it would have to be miles long. It would take months to complete. A year, perhaps. My advice would be to secure ourselves a closer position — a sort of bridgehead.’

‘The campsite we selected is the closest unoccupied hill large enough to support a force our size,’ Caesar mused wearily.

‘Then we’ll have to use an occupied one; a smaller one.’ Antonius pointed at the lowest enemy camp, far below its counterparts, yet still some three hundred feet above where they sat astride their horses. ‘Let’s drive them away and take that. There’s room up there for… what, two legions?’

Fronto started to smile, but stopped himself quickly. Smiling was still an excruciating pain.

‘And it guards access to the stream. He’s right. That’s the first step.’

* * * * *

Vergasillaunus stood atop the hastily thrown-up rampart on the high peak close to the oppidum, the forces of the Arverni arrayed behind him. The king had taken a leaf from the enemy’s book, encamping the various tribes in his army separately, as though they were each a legion, giving them the pride, manoeuvrability and fighting spirit of their individual tribes while maintaining the close-knit strength of an army.

The Arverni themselves held these heights, which protected the main accessible — western — gateway to the oppidum. The sizeable Lemovices contingent, under the competent and warlike Sedullos held the slightly higher bare peak to the southwest. The bulk of the tribes occupied the high ground below the oppidum’s south rampart, a hastily walled-in camp three hundred paces wide and a mile long, each tribe in its own position along its length.

And Lucterius and his Cadurci held the lowest peak, closest to the enemy — a small plateau to the south that went by the name of ‘white rocks’ for the slopes that surrounded its southern approach. Given the Cadurci chieftain’s recent run of ill luck, it had perhaps been foolish to allow him control of the outpost camp, but the man had been desperate to prove his worth after the various failures early in the campaign and, after all, he was a competent officer. None of it had been his own failings, but rather the will of the gods.

‘When will they move?’ Vergasillaunus asked.

Vercingetorix, standing beside him, the morning sun gleaming from his helm and bronzing his chiselled features, smiled. ‘Not for a day or two at least. It will take this day for their legions to entrench themselves over by the river. Then they will want to thoroughly scout out the area — be sure of what they face. And even then I do not think they will make a move until their supplies are safely with them. They believe they have all the time in the world and that we are trapped, for they are labouring in the belief that the Aedui are sending them men and protecting their supplies. That they are doing much the opposite will not have occurred to the Romans. No,’ he said with certainty. ‘We have a few days.’

‘Then do we sit tight, or do we harry them?’

‘Oh I think it is our duty as sons of Arvernus to make their life difficult. But only in small, irritating ways. I want regular forays, but never more than half a thousand men. Mix the cavalry and the archers where you can, so that we can cause the maximum damage. Let’s needle them continually, make their work harder. But never commit too many, and make sure the commanders know to pull back at the first sign of Roman aggression. If we push too hard, we might force them to a main assault, and I would like to see them weakened a little first.

The two men watched as a small party of Romans — officers judging by their horses and red cloaks and the surrounding bodyguard — turned and rode slowly away from the valley below, back towards their camp.

‘Start now. Let’s send word to Lucterius and see if we can make those officers ride a little faster.’

* * * * *

‘Enemy horse,’ cried one of the praetorian troopers.

The officers turned to look over their shoulders at the warning as the praetorians sprang to life, forming up at the rear of the group. A force of cavalry perhaps four or five hundred strong was racing down a snaking track from the lower enemy camp.

Fronto nodded to himself. As they had turned to leave, he’d heard the distinctive and unpleasant sound of the carnyx call from the hilltops, echoing around the valley, and had known beyond doubt that it had portended some such action. His brain made a brief calculation. At least four hundred of the enemy, and only a hundred or so Romans, including all the bodyguard units. Not good odds, especially given the Gauls’ natural ability as horsemen.

‘We need to outrun them,’ he shouted.

‘If we can,’ Antonius replied darkly. The Roman camp lay to the northwest, a mile distant, and the command party had, by necessity, taken a circuitous route to skirt the enemy-controlled areas. Thus, to return to camp, they would have to curve around the valley, while this enemy horse could race in a straight line and, if they were fast enough, cut the officers off from the army. Caesar’s expression said it all: almost the entire command structure of the Roman army in Gaul was here. Too bold. Too dangerous.

Ingenuus seemed to have formed the same conclusion. ‘Ride for the camp,’ he bellowed to the officers, turning without waiting for a reply and distributing orders to his praetorians. Sixty-four men. Two turmae of regular cavalry. How long they might hold back hundreds of expert Gallic cavalry was a matter of guesswork, but Fronto was impressed to note the professionalism and steadiness of the riders as they levelled their spears and adjusted their shields, ready for a fight they knew they couldn’t possibly win. It was all about protecting the officers; specifically, the general.

The young praetorian commander himself turned to accompany the fleeing officers. Not through fear, Fronto knew, but through a bone-deep commitment to stay by the general’s side at all times.

He didn’t look back. The remaining officers raced on, accompanied now only by Fronto’s nine singulares and the sixteen men of Antonius’ personal guard — thirty eight men running for the safety of the Roman camp. He didn’t look back, but he heard the demise of the praetorians — they all did. The crash of horse meeting horse at speed. The screams and cries, the clanging and grating of metal on metal, the snorts and whinnies of the beasts, the war cries in two distinct languages. Most notably, though, the brevity of it.

The rough ground raced along beneath the hooves of the horses as they made for the low rise that marked the camp of the legions, still under construction. Indeed, the Thirteenth legion were yet to arrive, bringing up the rear of the column, with the baggage train following on, and the Eleventh were even now pulling in from the north and into position.

Fronto could hear the enemy closing on them, their horses fresh and rested, and larger and faster than the smaller Roman animals, too. Even without looking, he was sure that they would overtake the Romans. They had, after all, been barely delayed by two turmae of veteran cavalry.

His eyes rose to the objective — the relative safety of the Roman camp. The mounds and ditches were already in evidence to the south and west, facing Gergovia, though the woven wicker fences and timber towers would be some time yet. Surely a few hundred Gauls would be put off by the proximity of four and a half legions?

He frowned at a curious noise, not unlike the booing and honking of the Gallic carnyx, though this issued from the camp ahead. As Bucephalus sweated beneath him, muscles bunching and extending in the speedy rhythm of the run, Fronto was startled suddenly to see three horseback figures suddenly leap the low mound and ditch from the interior of the camp, their heavy-set horses making the jump easily and barely slowing as they hit the mud-churned ground outside. Even as they raced towards the officers, more and more jumped out over the camp’s defences following on.

A slow, sly grin crossed Fronto’s face as he recognised the brutal, unforgiving forms of the German cavalry who had caused so much havoc back at Novioduno. In typical undisciplined fashion, the borderline-barbarian horsemen barely acknowledged their commanders as they raced past them, hungry for blood. Turning his grin on the passing Germans, he watched with satisfaction as the Germanic warriors ploughed into the rebel Gauls, yelling their guttural battle cries.

Secure now in the knowledge that they were safe from the pursuing horsemen, the officers reined in, watching the fierce battle unfold. It took mere moments for the Gauls to decide that they were in too much danger and begin to pull back. Heartbeats later, the remaining couple of hundred rebels were racing for the heights of Gergovia once more, some of the less-disciplined and more berserk of the Germans chasing them on.

Fronto watched with faint disgust as one of the well-equipped and blood-soaked barbarians trotted back past them towards the camp, again failing to acknowledge the general or his officers, busy as he was tying a severed head to his saddle horn by the hair.

Quadratus, one of the three cavalry wing commanders, came trotting over from the camp with a satisfied smile.

‘Saw you were in a spot of bother, general. And these lunatics were about to start eating each other if we didn’t let them hit someone soon.’

Fronto laughed and winced at the pain it caused in his jaw and cheek. If only they could release those Germans on the hill-top camps of the rebels, they might not have such a daunting task ahead.

* * * * *

Fabius and Furius peered up in the darkness, their eyes adjusting still to the night environment. The sprinkling of stars across the inky canopy did little to light the landscape, the moon having vanished behind the bulk of Gergovia almost an hour earlier and the only part of the enemy outpost that showed up well in the gloom was the chalky cave-pocked cliff to the south, which would be of little use to the assembled forces.

The Tenth legion lurked in the scrub behind a low ridge facing the lower camp, distant enough that the enemy had not spotted them yet, or at least had not yet raised the alarm. The Eighth were in a similar position some distance to the far side of the camp, forming the opposing pincer in this attack. If all went well, they would secure the heights before the bulk of the rebels forces could descend from the heights and aid the defenders. It would be a close thing. At least, from what they’d seen during the day the Gauls had not constructed heavy defences atop the low plateau. Hopefully, added to that, the confusion of a surprise attack in the dark would do the trick. The number of men atop that hill must roughly match the number of legionaries below, so they could not rely on numbers, clearly.

‘No corona available this time.’

‘What?’ Fabius frowned.

‘No corona muralis. No walls to storm means no decorations to win.’

‘Don’t you think you’re beginning to obsess over this a little?’

‘Just concentrate on your footing, keep that eye of yours open and don’t get in my way when the time comes to run up that hill and take the oppidum.’

Fabius sighed and looked away into the darkness. ‘Is that the signal?’ he hissed.

The pair squinted into the distance. What could quite possibly be a signifer waving the standard could just as easily have been a long, thin piece of local flora wavering in the breeze, just about visible in the gloom.

Carbo seemed to have decided it was the signal, for he was indicating for movement and the Tenth’s signifers were now also waving their standards for the advance. As the legion broke into a half-jog — the speedy march set by the signal — the two tribunes peered across at the barely-discernible figure of Fronto standing a hundred paces away next to a small coppice along with his singulares. Unusually, the legate had not raised an objection when Carbo had urged him to stay out of this fight, and the oddly-inactive behaviour raised questions in Fabius’ mind, but they would have to be questions for another time.

For now, the two tribunes fell into the quick march along with the rest, keeping pace alongside as befitted their rank, rather than amid the press of men. To some extent, Fabius was grateful that the attack was taking place under the cover of darkness. For the past few days, the heat had grown to unseasonable levels, and had become sweaty and skin-burning. A quick march up even this lower slope, fully-armoured and in the day’s heat, would be exhausting. At least the night afforded them some ease from the temperature. Damn this ridiculous land and its weather. Freezing and soaked one moment, searing and dry the next.

And the assault could not have come fast enough for them. Caesar had held tight for two days to ensure the safety of the main camp upon its completion and the security of the wagon train within. And throughout those two long days the enemy had sent small units of horse and archers against them. Never enough to cause real trouble, but enough to kill off forage parties or those units sent to gather timber or stone from nearby. The death toll had reached almost a hundred before Caesar had issued the order for the night attack.

Dragging his attention back to his surroundings, Fabius shuffled toward his blind side slightly to avoid a rabbit hole, gesturing for Furius behind him to watch for it too. The gradient suddenly steepened as they passed the point where the south cliff of the plateau marched off to their left, ploughing on up the tough slope, sweating and grunting.

Somewhere above them the sounds of alarm had been triggered, the clearly lax Gallic scouts having finally noted that something was amiss. What began as a few desperate shouts quickly bloomed into a tumult as the defenders rushed to the upper edge of the slopes and hefted shields, spears and sword in preparation. Archers appeared in their midst and began to loose shots down too early against the advancing legionaries.

Despite the standard procedure for dealing with missiles while assaulting a higher position, Carbo gave no order for the testudo. Given the angle of the terrain and the dangerous ground, full of rabbit warrens and bare patches of chalky rock, trying to keep each century in such a formation, reliant upon one another’s stability for their own, would be begging disaster. Instead, as they approached the enemy, closing on the upper slope, the front ranks raised their shields slightly and hunched behind them, presenting to the enemy only their moving feet and ankles and a narrow strip for eyesight between shield rim and helmet brow.

As they climbed, the arrows began to find their marks, most of them thudding into the shields and either bouncing off or breaking, a few penetrating enough to catch an arm behind, a few more managing to strike the flesh of a foot or ankle. One, only a few paces from Fabius, managed against all odds to hit that narrow band for a legionary’s sight, scraping over the shield rim and slamming into his left eye.

The man was dead before he hit the ground, the century forced to scatter and avoid the body as it rolled back down the slope, limbs snapping as it went. Other men were crying out at the leg wounds, but few were truly debilitating and most either limped on at speed or threw themselves out of formation to the side to prevent inhibiting their comrades.

They were almost cresting the hill now, the enemy mere paces away, their spears and swords already lancing and swiping out opportunistically.

Now, thought Fabius, throwing an urgent look at Carbo, who led as always from the front. The first spear point clanged off a bronze shield boss and finally the primus pilus blew his whistle, issuing the order to charge. The men tried to pick up the pace as the slope eased. They were too close to the enemy for an effective charge, but then, Fabius reflected, if the centurion had given the order much earlier, their momentum would have drained with the strain of the incline before they attacked.

The legionaries met the Gauls with a resounding crash, each side going to work at the slaughter with the confidence of professionals or the strength of men who fought for a belief.

Fabius found himself suddenly lurching forward, his foot catching an unseen hole in the grass, and was immensely grateful when Furius’ free arm caught him from behind and prevented him falling prone before the enemy.

He had no time to thank his friend, though. Already the fight was joined fully, the Gauls giving as good as they got, neither protected nor inhibited by defences. A man with a single braid hanging down the side of his face and a moustache of impressive proportions, wearing a mail shirt but no helm, lunged out with a spear, the point coming dangerously close and forcing Fabius to duck slightly to preserve his life.

Using his free, slightly deformed, hand — unencumbered by shield — he grabbed the spear shaft behind the head and yanked it down and to the side, startling the weapon’s owner, who found himself suddenly presenting his right shoulder to the Roman. Fabius jabbed his blade down, the tapering point entering the man’s body where neck and shoulder met, snapping a tendon on its descent into his torso.

The man screamed, his fingers releasing the spear, and Fabius shifted his focus to the next rebel. As the Gaul bellowed his defiance and leapt forward, Fabius tensed to meet the attack, but found himself barged roughly aside. Frowning as he stumbled and righted himself, he glared at Furius, who had pushed past him and now dispatched that Gaul with rough blows and angry strength. As his friend rose from the kill, momentarily in an open space as the two armies wrestled around them, Fabius reached out and grasped him by the shoulder.

Furius turned, his gladius already sweeping out for the attack, and it was only with extreme effort of will that the man recognised his friend and pulled the blow back.

Fabius stared at him. ‘Calm,’ he breathed.

‘I told you to stay out of my way,’ Furius snapped and wrenched his shoulder from his friend’s grip, throwing himself on into the fight.

‘What has got into you lately?’ Fabius whispered as he ran off after his friend.

The next few heartbeats were a mess for Fabius. Swords and helmets and shield bosses gleaming ghostly in the moonlight as he pushed on, keeping himself positioned carefully so that the blind-side of his missing eye did not present too much danger, while attempting to stay close on the heel of his friend.

Here and there he found himself beset by some native or other as the Gauls fought desperately to hold their position, all the time pushed back by the weight of the heavy Roman infantry that had come upon them unexpected in the dark. Ahead, Furius seemed to have been possessed by some demon, his figure soaked with blood and leading the fight, way out at the front.

The man had always had a temper — Fabius knew that. His temper had almost cost them their lives in Pompey’s eastern campaign, but it had always been contained and controlled. Made to work for him. To some extent, it was what had made him a good soldier.

But since that day at Avaricon, when he’d climbed the ladder and failed to take the prize, something had changed in him. It seemed now that he was driven by different forces. After that siege, Furius could so easily have been charged with an offence for his actions, but the legionary he had laid out had refused to take the matter up, fearing retribution. No one had spoken to the two tribunes about the incident, but Fabius had seen Fronto’s expression when they were near and he knew that, somehow, the legate had heard what had happened. In fact, though Fabius had not been able to see Fronto’s face in the gloom down below a quarter of an hour ago, he was certain the legate had worn that very same look. Indeed, before the legions had moved out under cover of darkness, Fronto had paused for a long moment before acquiescing to their request to join the attack, not an action in which a legion’s tribunes would normally partake.

And now, Furius was busy hacking and maiming his way through the Gauls as though each and every one had personally offended him. Somewhere, over the din, Fabius could hear the booing and honking of a carnyx. Though he could hardly tell one Gallic call from another through the dreadful instrument, it was clear from both the urgency of the tune and the effect it seemed to have on the mass of men that it was a call to withdraw.

The call was answered by others high up among the hills, presumably relaying orders to the beaten force to abandon their lost ground and move to some other position.

The Gauls were pulling back, but Fabius pushed on, watching his friend kill and dismember indiscriminately. The press of Gauls ahead had stopped retreating and were jammed up in a seething mass into which Furius thrust his gladius again and again, yelling something incoherent. The man’s unoccupied shield arm hung by his side, blood sheeting down it from some wound that the man barely acknowledged.

Fabius moved forward still. The Gauls were trying to run now, but this particular part of the enemy force was in serious trouble. The forces of the Tenth had driven them back across the plateau, but they had run out of places to retreat, the front ranks of the Eighth pushing in from the far side, squeezing them between the two legions, the only real path to freedom presenting them with a seventy or eighty foot drop down the chalky cliff.

‘Furius!’

But his friend fought on, oblivious.

Fabius lunged forth, his sword lowered — the Gauls were trying to run or laying down their weapons in defeat. Few were still showing resistance, and the men of the Tenth were on hand all around anyway. Reaching out, Fabius grabbed Furius’ raised sword-arm before the blood-slicked blade could descend again, hauling his friend back from the press sharply. Furius staggered back, shocked out of whatever fog had descended upon his senses.

Fabius stared as Furius’ latest victim tumbled to the ground, blood spraying from his neck, his helmet slightly askew and his mail shirt torn. The tribune blinked. The unfortunate dying legionary’s eyes stared desperately, his fingers slipping from the shield’s grip, the curved, oval shield displaying Caesar’s bull and the ‘VIII’ of the Eighth legion falling to the blood-and-mud-churned grass.

‘You lunatic!’ Fabius snapped, turning Furius to face him. His friend’s expression, from beneath a coating of blood, was bewildered… almost unhinged, in fact. Fabius stared at him, as Furius looked down at the sword in his hand as though it were controlled by someone else, and then let go of the hilt suddenly as though it glowed white hot.

The gore-spattered tribune stood shaking, his eyes flashing back and forth between his blade on the grass and the convulsing legionary he had mistakenly killed in the press of men, his rage having overridden his senses.

Shaking his head to clear it of the shock, Fabius turned. Strangely, despite the situation, the battle seemed to have all-but stopped around them, a few legionaries still struggling with the more vehement of the trapped Gauls, but most of the enemy resigned to their fate and most of the legionaries staring in shock at the tribune and his victim.

Fabius exhaled slowly and unbuckled his helmet, ripping it from his head.

‘None of you saw this. I will deal with the matter in due course, but do not send rumours creeping across the camp. This is not the time to dishearten your comrades.’

He knew the tale would spread, of course, regardless of what he did, but if he could staunch the flow temporarily, he might be able to break the news first. Turning his despairing eye upon Furius, he ground his teeth for a moment, before clearing his throat.

‘Go back to the Tenth. Attend the capsarius for that arm.’

Furius stared for a moment and then nodded dumbly, turning and shuffling back from the scene, his sword forgotten, lying in the dirt.

* * * * *

Fronto pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut the way the general did when anger and disbelief fought for ascendancy within him.

‘This is going to cause endless trouble.’

‘I know,’ sighed Fabius, leaning forward with his palms on the table. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him, but he’s losing control.’

‘If I’d had one witness after that incident at Avaricon I would have dealt with him then. I’d hoped it was an isolated incident, though, so I didn’t push matters.’

‘Me too.’

‘I don’t understand this. You two have been model soldiers this past four years.’

And yet his memory strayed to that clearing in the woods back in Britannia. His first impressions of the pair. Furius, with that white scar that ran across his collar line, where a general back in the east had tried to have the two executed for ‘overstepping their authority’. Tales the pair told when they were in their cups of their daring exploits in their time under Pompey, most of which seemed to involve an insanely dangerous attack. The stories he had heard from last year, when the two had been intimately involved in the assault on the Menapii island that had left Fabius with a damaged hand. Perhaps, on balance, it was less surprising that the tribune had succumbed to apparent battle-madness than he’d first thought?

‘You’re both good soldiers,’ he continued through a sigh. ‘But I’m starting to worry about Furius’ appropriateness in his position. Someone of your rank should have more control.’ He felt a jolt of guilt at the comment, given his similar failures both in the attack in Britannia a few years ago, and more recently in the siege of Cenabum. He would never again allow himself the luxury of such madness, though, and he couldn’t allow it in his men, either.

‘If this tale comes to the ear of the general or Marcus Antonius, there’ll be a trial for Furius. And you might catch the backlash yourself for trying to silence the witnesses.’ He held up a hand as Fabius opened his mouth to argue. ‘I know why you did, and I would likely have done the same. But the fact remains that if it comes to the commanders’ notice, you’ll both be screwed.’

He sighed. ‘But something will have to be done. I can’t just let you both off with a scolding. It would infuriate the men of both legions who saw what happened.’

An uncomfortable silence fell, and Fabius eventually took a deep breath. ‘You cannot appear to be protecting us.’

Fronto nodded.

‘It’s time you were put back in a position most suitable for you. I’m having your striped tunics stripped. You’ll both report to the quartermaster immediately to arrange for the uniform of a centurion. You are no longer tribunes in the Tenth legion.’

Fabius bowed his head, defeated, but accepting.

‘And you will collect shields and appropriate kit for the Eighth legion.’

The former-tribune looked up in surprise.

‘I’m sorry, Fabius, but demotion is lenient for what just happened. I will be heavily criticised for it. And given that, I cannot afford to have you under my command henceforth. If either of you stepped out of line again, even fractionally, I would have to order the harshest punishment I could. Instead I am transferring you to the command of Gaius Fabius Pictor. You’re his problem now.’

Fabius stared at his legate. ‘But sir, after what Furius did to a man from the Eighth…’

‘He will have to work out how to make amends somehow. I won’t protect him in the Tenth at the expense of the ire of another legion. From what I hear, Pictor owes you. I gather you saved his life on an island in the Rhenus last year. Cash that in. Do what you must, but I can no longer command you. Report to the Eighth first thing in the morning. I will speak to Pictor and agree the matter tonight. He is still down five centurions after Avaricon, filling the roles with temporary field-promotions. He will be glad of veterans to plug the gaps.’

He rose and extended a hand.

‘Good luck, Fabius.’

The former tribune sighed and took the proffered hand, gripping it tight. ‘Thank you for this, sir.’

‘Don’t thank me too soon. You’re still in the thick of it. The Tenth and the Eighth are assigned to the camp you just took. The fight has only just begun.’

* * * * *

‘The time is almost upon us,’ Litavicus of the Aedui murmured to Cavarinos as the pair tore into a loaf of fresh-baked bread in the early morning sunlight, the dew already evaporating from the grass.

‘How will you do it?’ Cavarinos replied quietly.

‘With guile, as always,’ grinned the young noble.

The Arvernian breathed in the glorious morning air. His young companion loved only one thing more than devising his plots and plans, and that was to keep them secret and watch as they slowly revealed themselves, invariably successfully. He was, in truth, exactly the sort of person Cavarinos usually despised — treacherous, devious, not given to honour, deceitful and, despite all that, a smug and reckless one. And yet somehow it was difficult to dislike him. He simply had a magnetic quality.

It was to be hoped he was as clever as he thought he was, too.

The seven thousand Aedui riders of whom he had been placed in command had been drawn from the most veteran, notable houses of all the Aedui, beyond just Bibracte. As such, only a relatively small proportion of them were currently involved in the plan and held themselves oath-bound to Vercingetorix. Most of the powerful warriors encamped around them on this sunny hillside were pro-Roman Aedui, or at least those who had no strong anti-Roman sentiment. If Litavicus was to break their bonds, he would have to be every bit as cunning as he claimed to be.

And among their number, travelling at the rear with a score of legionaries, came the Romans’ latest supply train. Two hundred wagons of food and equipment, manned by Roman citizens and accompanied by soldiers.

‘My brothers,’ was all Litavicus had let on when Cavarinos had pried into how he intended to achieve all this. The young warrior’s two brothers, along with half a dozen other nobles who all owed their allegiance to the Arverni, had been sent ahead from Bibracte, ostensibly to inform Caesar of the imminent approach of his supplies and reinforcements.

Seven thousand of the best horseback warriors the Aedui could muster. It was quite an impressive force in its own right. They were strong enough, fresh enough, and disciplined enough to defeat a legion in the field. If Litavicus had misjudged something and the pro-Roman nobles among them took the warriors to Caesar’s side, it would be a terrible blow to the rebel cause. But if the young man had pulled it off, then Vercingetorix’s army would gain the edge they desperately needed. After all, more than half of these men had spent years serving alongside the Romans as native levies. They knew the legions; knew how to beat them, if approached properly.

And this was still only plumbing the shallowest depths of the Aedui and their allies. When news of this spread, the Aedui could field another thirty thousand men if needed, and the tribes who owed allegiance to them the same again. The scales of strength were about to tip in favour of the rebellion. Vercingetorix had been correct from the start in courting the Aedui; in their value to the cause. Of course he had been correct. Let’s hope he was equally correct in his decision to let Caesar meet him at Gergovia.

He sat musing in silence for a while as Litavicus hummed a carefree tune. Then, as he was finishing his cup of milk and about to rise and go to prepare his mount for the remaining thirty miles to Gergovia, a shout went up to the west.

Litavicus grinned. ‘Observe a miracle in the making.’

Cavarinos frowned and stood, brushing down his clothes and rolling his shoulders to loosen up. There was some sort of fuss over on the western side of the camp, and the commotion was moving their way like a ripple in the mass of men.

After a short wait, during which Litavicus continued to hum quietly, three figures emerged from the throng, half a dozen of the Aedui nobles hurrying alongside them. Cavarinos knew their faces vaguely, but it took him a moment to place them, then he exhaled sharply, trying not to smile.

One of Litavicus’ brothers, along with two others of the men who’d been sent ahead to Caesar. All three were dirty and dishevelled and looked to have been beaten heavily, bruises and blood caking them. The three men staggered up to the young noble’s campfire and collapsed, weary, to the earth. Now, all the warriors crowded forward to see these poor husks of men, but Litavicus’ close guard kept them back. With apparent pain, the nobleman’s brother rose and staggered across to Litavicus, who reached out his arms to steady him. Cavarinos was near enough to hear the exchange that followed, though the rest of the army heard nothing of it, for their conversation was low and close.

‘What of the rest?’ Litavicus muttered.

‘Dispersed,’ his brother breathed. ‘Our brother back to the south, Viridomarus and his friends to Cabillono, Eporedirix back to Decetio. They will disappear for now. Caesar has Gergovia under siege, but there are still many ways in that are not watched by the legions.’

Litavicus nodded and smiled. ‘You have all done well, brother. Your injuries are most convincing. I will require you for only a moment, and then you can visit the healers and tend your wounds.’

The man sagged slightly, and Litavicus patted him on the shoulder, then straightened and stepped forward to address the assembled warriors.

‘See now to whom we have chained ourselves. Our bravest and most noble hurry to Caesar to tell him we come to his aid, and all they find is violence.’ He paused for effect. ‘For Caesar blames them for our tardiness and accuses them of treachery and consorting with the Arverni!’

Gently, he turned his brother to display his dishevelled appearance and bruised skin to the masses.

‘Where are the rest?’ called out a voice from the crowd. Litavicus gestured for his brother to speak up and the beaten young man cleared his throat with apparent pain. ‘Dead. All dead. Eporedirix. Viridomarus. Even our poor brother. Murdered and tortured by Caesar for some perceived treachery! Three of us escaped with our lives. Three alone of eight.’

‘What would you have us do?’ one of the warriors asked darkly. ‘Break our word? Renounce a vow given before the Gods and make war on Caesar?’ Cavarinos recognised him as one of the more noted pro-Roman nobles, and he held his breath. Much hinged on this exchange.

‘What has Caesar done?’ Litavicus replied, gesturing to his bruised kin, ‘if he has not just broken that bond for us. Caesar declares war on us for some false treachery. I have lost a brother!’ Cavarinos was impressed to see a tear leak from the young noble’s eye. He was nothing if not convincing. ‘A brother! And another beaten and sentenced to the same fate, yet protected by the gods to bring us news of this horror.’

A susurration issued around the crowd. Cavarinos could almost feel the hatred seething among the assembly, could almost sense the anger against Caesar tipping the scale. It was done in a masterly fashion. In a stroke of genius Litavicus had not only managed to turn the tide against Rome, but he had managed to turn himself into a hero and his brother into a martyr in doing it. So long as the supposed victims of Caesar remained hidden away, all would prove well.

‘We should return to Bibracte!’ someone shouted. ‘Abandon Caesar.’

‘No,’ Litavicus said, in a quiet, snake-hiss of a voice, unfolding to his full height. Cavarinos had not realised the man was hunched until he suddenly seemed to grow. The man was a born actor.

‘No,’ the young noble said again, slightly louder. ‘This slight was not levelled at my brothers alone. Nor even at the men of Bibracte. It is a slight made against all of the Aedui. Caesar has in one cowardly, craven and paranoid move, tarred the Aedui as traitors. What now? Should we sit at home and wait for him to finish with the Arverni and then turn his anger on us? Let him beat and torture the rest of us?’

He took a single step forward, his hand coming down to rest on the hilt of his sword. ‘No. Caesar has decided that we are with the Arverni. Let us turn this falsehood into a cause. Let us ride for Gergovia and revenge ourselves upon the Romans who beat our brothers!’

The crowd held its silence for a moment, until a lone voice suddenly called out ‘Gergovia!’

As Cavarinos and Litavicus watched, the word was taken up as a chant by half a dozen voices, which then spread until it became a rhythmic roar across the hillside.

‘And what of them?’ demanded the man who had initially resisted, gesturing across the hill, the chant dying away as the crowd turned their attention to this new conversation.. Cavarinos followed the man’s gaze to the Roman supply wagons on the crest, their civilian crews sitting nervous atop the benches, the meagre guard of legionaries with hands on weapon hilts, preparing for trouble.

‘Caesar tortures and kills our nobles…’ Litavicus snarled. ‘Let us return the favour!’

With a roar, the more rabid of the incensed warriors ran for the carts, weapons raised. The legionaries prepared desperately to sell their lives dearly, for they were clearly doomed, and everyone knew it. Cavarinos lost sight of the terrified Romans amid the rush of the raging Aedui surrounding them. With a shake of his head, he stepped close to Litavicus.

‘This is not the way,’ he whispered. ‘They are mostly merchants and farmers, even if they are Roman ones. They do not deserve death, let alone torture. We’re warriors, not murderers.’

‘The army has its blood up,’ Litavicus replied equally quietly. ‘They will kill them anyway. Let them sate themselves in Roman blood. Every cut they deliver makes them more mine.’

Cavarinos stood with his cold glare locked on the man. ‘I fight to free our lands from mindless and hateful death under oppressive rulers, not merely to change who those rulers are.’

‘And I fight to kill Romans. If you have not the stomach for this, Cavarinos of the Arverni, then you are no use to me.’

Litavicus stomped off towards the agonised screams of Roman civilians, and Cavarinos closed his eyes. Did the rebels deserve to win, if this was how they were to act? What was he doing fighting this war for men like that? Shortly, he would ride for Gergovia with them, and they would join Vercingetorix. But there would be no more such unjust, cruel and unnecessary acts, or he would have to take action himself.

Grinding his teeth at the stupidity of their allies, he patted the curse tablet in its pouch at his belt and strode back to his horse.

* * * * *

Caesar scratched his chin.

‘Then it’s dealt with?’

‘As best I could without pulling both men out of the fight. They are too experienced and strong — and even popular — to risk keeping out of battle. They’re now serving as centurions in the Eighth. There they can work to make up for what they’ve done and still be useful to us.’

‘They killed another soldier, Fronto. That’s a serious offence, not cause for a mere transfer.’

Fronto sighed and folded his arms. ‘Respectfully, Caesar, we both know that things like this happen from time to time. It was unfortunate, and Furius was clearly at fault, but you know it was not an intentional killing. I know the pair of them. They will fight all the harder to recover their reputation.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Caesar replied, rising with a creased brow and crossing to his tent’s door. Leaning forward, he pulled open the flap and gestured to the praetorian soldier outside. ‘What is all the noise? I am attempting to hold a meeting in here.’

The trooper saluted. ‘There’s a man here demanding to see you, Caesar. A Gaul. Says he has important news for you. I was about to knock.’

Caesar looked past the man to see a travel-worn and tired Gaul, dressed in rich, if dirty, clothing and with the gold and bronze accoutrements of a noble, his grey hair and moustaches matted but braided well.

‘I know you,’ he said.

‘Eporedirix, Caesar,’ the man replied quietly. ‘Of the Aedui. Formerly your factor in Bibracte and erstwhile magistrate of Decetio.’

‘The Aedui,’ Caesar breathed a relieved breath. ‘It’s about time. Come in, then, man.’

The Gaul followed Caesar in and Fronto turned in his chair to look the man up and down. ‘You ran into some trouble, I assume?’

Caesar returned to his desk. ‘I trust you bring news of my supplies and reserves?’

‘I do, Caesar, though the news is not good.’

Fronto felt his heart sink.

‘Go on,’ Caesar said quietly.

‘Treacherous men among the Aedui rise up against you, Caesar. Litavicus and Convictolitanis among others. Even now, Litavicus takes seven thousand horsemen to the Arverni’s aid, along with your latest supply wagons now in his possession. The Aedui are breaking their bond with you Caesar, and even those of us who maintain our vows and trust to you and to Rome are at risk from this rising vocal minority. If they are not checked, they will turn the whole tribe against you.’

Caesar took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing.

‘Where are these seven thousand men now?’

‘Less than thirty miles from here, on the road to Bibracte.’

Caesar turned a questioning look on Fronto.

‘If they can be stopped, then they should,’ the legate replied. ‘To prevent the extra manpower for the enemy, and also to recover the much-needed supplies.

The general nodded. ‘You and Fabius maintain the siege from the two camps. I’ll take the rest across the new bridge and intercept this rebel Aedui army. They need to be reminded of their vows.’

‘And their leaders?’ Eporedirix asked.

‘This Litavicus will pay for his treachery. Convictolitanis and the rest will have to wait for now. Be assured, though, that I will free your people from these traitors and return them to Rome’s side.’ He turned back to Fronto. ‘Can you hold for a day or two without us?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

Chapter 13

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.

Chapter 14

Gergovia

Cavarinos watched the Lemovices under their king, Sedullos, pulling back north along the hilltop towards the higher peak closer to the Oppidum’s gate, where Vercingetorix and his Arverni were in a similar state of decamping.

‘This is courting disaster,’ he muttered.

The king smiled and shook his head. ‘We need to secure the northern slopes and bolster the defences of the oppidum itself against potential enemy pushes, and that means a concentration of our forces. You were not here, but we saw first-hand what happens when our army is too widespread. I cannot blame Lucterius for having lost the white rocks. He was too far from support — too precarious — but I will not make the same mistake again.’

‘So you’ll clear off the peaks and gift them to Caesar for his new legions instead?’

The king gave him a dark look. ‘Do not think to second-guess me, Cavarinos. I am not such a fool as you think. We can re-garrison the heights far quicker than the Romans can storm the slopes to take them. I will leave plenty of scouts to watch for any move Caesar makes, but the man means to starve us and weaken us before he makes any push. With the loss of the white rocks, he has more than halved our access to water supply, and seriously limited our foraging capabilities. We have plenty of food, and the northern slope remains open to forage and supply, but we must consolidate now, while he is inactive, and prepare for the long term, even move most of our supplies into the oppidum itself.’

‘We just wait for Caesar to starve us out?’

‘Hardly, Cavarinos. Litavicus informs me that although the traitors took our Aedui horse over to Caesar, things are still uncertain among his tribe, and they can still be brought to our cause. Convictolitanis works on at this, and your brother is still abroad to the north, summoning up allies for us. Only yesterday, before you returned, a thousand Veneti warriors arrived, sent forth on his request to our aid. He does me good work. Our forces grow and, unless Caesar thinks to surround us — which is not feasible unless he can double his forces — new men and food can always be brought in from the north. But we must fortify if that is to remain the case. I have given orders for the low rampart around the main camp to be raised with stones to a height of six feet, and we will wall in the northern approach to prevent the same thing happening there as happened at white rocks.’

‘I’m not sure how far I trust your friend Litavicus. I think he’s rather more full of himself than of talent. Probably more full of shit than either, in fact.’

‘He remains loyal to us, nevertheless, and loyalty is a valuable commodity in these times.’

‘A loyal idiot can be more dangerous than a disloyal one. Nothing can be trusted when it is built upon tier after tier of lies and deceit, Vercingetorix. We believed the Aedui were ours because you had bought men working within them for our gain. But what this cavalry debacle should have taught us is that this is not a reliable way to achieve our goals. We had bought men, but Caesar had bought men within ours, it seems.’

Ignoring the disapproving gaze of his king, Cavarinos gestured at the flood of men leaving the twin hills and retreating north towards the oppidum’s western gate with a sweep of his arm.

‘We began this revolt to drive out Rome and the decadent influences and morals their culture seems to have introduced to the tribes. We were the heroes of our people, backed by the word of the druids and with the good of the people at heart. We would raise a great army with our words of freedom and justice, and we would take that army against Caesar and defeat him; teach the Romans that they would never take us.’

‘And that is what we are doing, Cavarinos.’

‘Is it? Is it really? It’s a rare and disturbing occasion when I find myself echoing my brother’s words, but he had a point. We have lost our way. Pride and stealth, treachery and subterfuge have become our core. We play tribes off against one another and sacrifice those we purport to champion for the good of ourselves. We trust to trickery and bribery to secure the support of others. If our cause was that just and noble, we should not need to buy our allies. I pictured this summer being my great war. I would be commanding half the warriors of Nemossos in battle, repeatedly defeating Romans until I had driven them back into the sea.’

‘Cavarinos…’

‘No. Instead, I spend my time running from one ruse or deception to another trying to hold our failing alliance together. And while I do so, you burn oppidum after oppidum to deny the Romans, but refuse to fire your own. What sort of message does that send? No wonder tribes like the Aedui will not flock to our banner. The Romans only punish their enemies… not their allies. Sometimes I wonder if our world would not be better under them!’

The king slapped his hand across Cavarinos’ mouth and rounded on him angrily.

‘You are long one of my friends and allies, Cavarinos, but talk like that could cause us more damage than a whole legion of Romans. If you want to free Gaul, then help me, but if you are to go on spreading such sedition, you have no place here.’

Cavarinos took a deep breath. ‘Give me your oath you will sacrifice no one else; that you will not put the Arverni above the other tribes that fight with us.’

‘You have it.’

‘And look me in the eye and tell me that you can win this. That you can hold Gergovia and beat Caesar.’

‘I can do it, Cavarinos. And I will.’

‘Then I am yours and I will keep my mouth sealed. But for the love of life and freedom, do not fail here, king of the Arverni. If you lose this mountain, then you lose everything and neither I nor the army, nor the druids nor even the gods can save us.’

* * * * *

Fronto blinked. ‘He’s right, general. They’ve left the heights. They’re still in their main camp below the oppidum wall, but both of the western hills are empty. It looks like they’ve moved back to the oppidum and the western approach. What the hell are they playing at?’

Caesar rubbed his jaw, noting with surprise how stubbly it had become and making a mental note to shave when he returned to his tent. Just because they were in the field was no reason to let standards slip, after all. ‘Whatever it is, the withdrawal is only temporary,’ the general noted, and gestured up to the hilltops. ‘If you watch a few moments, you will see the occasional glint of bronze. They have set scouts to watch. If they had no further interest in the place they would not be watching.’

‘Still,’ Plancus said quietly, ‘a few scouts are no worry. Two legions again and we could take those heights. Then we would really have them pinned, Caesar.’

‘Hardly,’ murmured Caesar. ‘They are half a mile from their former position. A mile at most, and at the same height. By the time we reach even the lower slopes they will be mobilising again. We wouldn’t be halfway to the top before they were waiting for us. It’s almost as if they’re inviting us. As if it is a trap.’

Fronto tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. A slow smile crept across his face.

‘Do you remember that pissy ordo member in Corduba, general?’

Caesar frowned in incomprehension.

‘The one with the… er… over-friendly wife?’

Light dawned on Caesar and he pursed his lips as he though back over the decades to the event of which Fronto was speaking. It had been so long ago, and there had been plenty of ‘pissy’ politicians, and no few over-friendly women, if he was to be honest…

A smile broke across his face.

‘I forget his name, but I think I see what you mean.’

Antonius cleared his throat. ‘Care to enlighten me?’

Fronto opened his mouth to speak, but Caesar cast him a warning look and began the tale. ‘There was a young lady in Corduba who availed herself of my time. She was rather… welcoming… to a young dashing quaestor from Rome. I only discovered the next day that she was the wife of one of the city council, and when the man found out, he blew his top. He knew I was too important to have it out in public — I’d achieved a certain fame for my orations and that ridiculous business with the pirates — so he invited me to dinner. He’d cleared out his atrium, you see, and hired half a dozen ruffians with the intention of beating me near to death when I arrived.’

‘But that love-struck young lady warned us in advance,’ Fronto grinned nastily. ‘When the silly old fart opened the door he found not Caesar, but a contubernium of veteran legionaries, all rather incensed and on extra pay for their time.’

As Antonius chuckled, Caesar smiled. ‘I think he rather regretted setting the trap as he watched the thugs beaten senseless, waiting for my men to turn to him.’

Fronto laughed aloud. ‘Not as much as he regretted the fact that, while all that was happening, you and his strumpet of a wife were going at it again in his own bedroom.’

Caesar gave him a hard look as the officers around him made straining noises, trying not to burst out laughing. ‘Anyway,’ the general replied loudly, ‘the point was that he had expected us to come in the front, but I used that expectation to distract him while I affected entry elsewhere.’

‘You’re suggesting something similar here?’ Antonius frowned as Fronto chortled in the background.

‘I am. Let me run my idea past you all. I think you’ll like it.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he rode across the hillside of the more southerly peak, which was dotted with scattered trees and yet nude in comparison with its northern companion, Vercingetorix and Vergasillaunus at his side and Lucterius and Sedullos close behind. Two of the Lemovices who had been left on watch atop the southern hill was waving over at them and pointing down the slope. The commanders of the rebel army trotted over to the scout and reined in, trying not to look east, where the early morning sun hovered just above the horizon with blinding golden light.

‘No need to ask what he saw,’ murmured Vergasillaunus as the five nobles peered down at the activity below. A train of supply carts was moving west along the valley floor from the Roman position, skirting the lowest reaches of this very hill. Roman regular cavalry moved among and around it in sizeable units, and Caesar’s allied Gallic cavalry were also in evidence, ranging across the lower slopes protectively.

‘What are they doing?’ Lucterius snorted.

‘They are transferring a sizeable part of their camp, building a new one,’ Vergasillaunus replied. ‘Perhaps they mean to seal off that northern approach after all. See how there are engineers among them. They have those strange stick things Roman engineers carry.’

‘Groma,’ Cavarinos noted.

‘Whatever they’re called, if those men have them, they’re engineers. Baggage, engineers and cavalry. They’re heading to a spot for a new camp.’

‘If they meant to seal off the northern approach they would have gone straight there, not skirted the whole place in a circuit. No, these men are heading to the western end, beyond the hills. What could they hope to achieve to the west?’

Vercingetorix took a deep breath. ‘They are not heading west. They are just moving into position. See also the gleam of steel down there?’ The king pointed at the lower slope, toward the Roman lines. As the others followed his gesture, they spotted the legion through the trees and scrubland, moving into position at the foot of the slope.

‘They hope to distract us with the carts to the west, while their supposedly-hidden legion assails the hill and takes our position. They can then hold it while those engineers come up with the carts and fortify, all with cavalry support. They are moving to take the hill, and they are attempting to be cunning about it, distracting us from their real target. But their legion is not as well hidden as they think.’ He glanced across at Cavarinos. ‘Well, this hill will not fall as easily as the white rocks.’

The Arverni king turned to the men of his personal entourage who had followed on and now waited behind at a respectable distance. ‘No signals or calls. Just have the word sent out. Bring every man we can spare across to the western hills. They will not take this position.’

* * * * *

‘A few horsemen at the crest,’ Brutus muttered. ‘Have to be nobles. The rebel king, you think?’

Aristius pursed his lips. ‘I don’t really know these Gauls yet, but it seems likely. Do you think he’s seen us?’ He glanced around at the glinting forms of the newly-assigned Fifth legion moving through the trees. What an order they’d been given: move as noisily as you can, but try to make it look like you’re sneaking!

How the hell were they supposed to do that?

As they’d moved through the woods, the clank and shush of mail and other kit vying with the call of the multitudinous larks in a dawn chorus of war, Aristius had not known whether to tell his men to quieten down or to move louder.

Still, they seemed to have done the job, if they’d drawn the attention of the leaders. Moreover, as he watched he saw one of the high, distant figures gesture out to the west, to where part of the camp’s supply train had been sent out as a distraction, the mule-handlers and teamsters kitted out in military gear and resembling cavalry to the untrained eye. The activity had to be causing the Gauls concern.

Above, the riders started to wave to someone unseen, and then turned and left the edge of the slope.

‘They’ve definitely seen us,’ Brutus smiled. ‘Job complete. Have the Fifth draw up and wait in formation in the woodland. Let’s keep their focus on us.’

* * * * *

Fronto stood between his fellow legates, feeling older than usual, given the company, despite his current level of vigour and the warm weather giving him relief from knee trouble. Seven years ago, he had come to Gaul in the company of his future father-in-law, and Balbus had been the old man of the army. Strange that these days he had become the elderly officer, Sextius to his left and Fabius to the right both more than ten years his junior.

The three legates straightened as Caesar and Antonius stepped out of the tent at the centre of the white rocks camp. Things had been crowded here last night with the arrival under the cover of darkness of the Thirteenth, and despite what was about to happen, every man was looking forward to moving out of their sweaty, tight, cramped quarters.

‘My scouts tell me that the Gauls have been flooding across to the twin hills for the past half an hour, gentlemen. It appears that they have fallen for our ruse. Brutus and Aristius have their attention riveted on the Fifth. Now is our time to ravage their camp. Are the men supplied?’

The three legates nodded. Every century had been given a dozen pitch-soaked torches and a slow-burning horseshoe fungus, barring three cohorts of the Thirteenth, who were to remain behind and guard the camp.

‘Remember that this is a raid, not an assault. Their camp is seriously undermanned now and with surprise we can deal the enemy a dreadful blow, but we are not attempting to take and secure that camp. Lying just below the oppidum’s walls, we cannot hold the camp and to do so would lead to disaster. We storm to stone wall….’

Fabius coughed, surprise overriding his good sense and leading him to interrupt the general.

‘We, sir?’

‘Yes. We. I shall be accompanying the raid, among the ranks of the Tenth.’

‘Is that wise, general?’

Caesar gave his legate a hard look. ‘Fabius, I am no stranger to battle. But this should not be a hard fight anyway. This is a swift raid only. I wish to have a closer look at the enemy positions and their defences, and this will give me the perfect chance for that.’ He paused and rubbed his chin. ‘As I was saying, we storm the stone wall and, as soon as we are in their camp, I want every remaining occupant killed. We do not have the time or resources for prisoners. Kill anyone you find. Take anything that stands out as valuable, useful, or informative, and then burn the rest. Every tent. Every cart. Every crate or sack. I want that camp a mile-long field of ash when we leave. The Aedui riders will be coming up the slope from the main camp to our right. They will hold back and not engage, but are there to provide support should it be needed.’

The general rubbed his hands together in a business-like fashion. ‘Are we all clear?’

‘Yes, general.’

* * * * *

Teutomarus, king of the Nitiobriges, was not a young man. Indeed, his sons had urged him time and again not to lead their tribe’s contingent in the war against Rome. But he had refused. It was his duty and right as king, and when they destroyed Caesar and his legions and pushed Rome back to its home peninsula, it would be his name that was sung in the halls of the mighty alongside Vercingetorix and his generals, and not that of a son or nephew whose only real concern for him was not for his health, but that he not hog all the glory.

He stretched out languidly. His joints had stopped aching with the change in the weather, at least, but the weariness refused to leave, and the protracted periods in the saddle were playing havoc with his back, which had plagued him since a hunting accident over a decade ago.

His bed was comfortable, transported for him by cart and stuffed with the finest down to soothe his ageing bones. And his tent was larger than the rest of the Nitiobrige nobles’, well-appointed with Gallic and stolen Roman goods. Outside, he could hear his horse whickering, but all else was the sound of nature at work. Comforting.

The bulk of the tribes had rushed across to the twin hills at the Arverni king’s call to hold the heights against a legion or two that were said to be moving on them. Teutomarus had been perfectly willing to take part, but when Vercingetorix had asked that the Nitiobriges remain at the oppidum to continue the fortifications, he had been secretly grateful. The men of his tribe toiled up at the oppidum’s west gate and inside, strengthening the walls and digging ditches as best they could until they hit white rock. But their king, who would hardly be expected to endure such manual labour, had taken the well-deserved and much-needed opportunity for forty winks.

He rolled onto his side, but that brought back the dull ache in his lower spine so, with a groan, he settled onto his back again. It was too warm, even this early in the day, to be covered up, and he lay there bare-chested and bare-footed, his tunic, cloak and boots, as well as his gold and bronzeware, lying on a purloined Roman chest nearby. With a sigh of pleasure, he folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes again, enjoying the tent’s dim interior, which kept the worst of the heat at bay.

And then, as he lay relaxing, his ears picked something out of the symphony of nature’s activity. It took his tranquil mind precious moments to discern the sound of an urgent voice among the strains of animal and bird life and the daily routine noises of the oppidum above.

For a moment, he didn’t believe what he was hearing, but there it was again: a shrill, desperate call. His ears focused on the call, blocking out all the other sounds as best he could.

Romans?

Scratching his head, he sat up — slowly, to save further back trouble — and blinked away the fuzziness of his rest. There were half a dozen shouts now, and close. Frowning, not quite sure what was going on, Teutomarus hauled himself to his feet with a long groan, whitening fingertips gripping a high cupboard to help him rise. He stood, stooped by his sore back, and slowly, carefully, straightened.

He tried to roll his shoulders to loosen up a little, but the movement hurt too much and he settled for at least standing straight. Were the voices shouting louder, or were they closer? Both?

Rubbing his chin and moustaches, he stepped gingerly to the door of his tent, his feet feeling every nuance of the soft grass beneath him. Still somewhat bleary, he threw back one flap of his tent door. His quarters were almost perfectly central in the long camp, half a mile along, and halfway between the stone wall and the oppidum’s rampart. And he had made sure the tent door faced south, partially to prevent the sun pouring in at any time of the day, and partially to afford him a view of the valley below…

…or of several thousand clattering, clanking, roaring and swearing legionaries charging across his camp. His eyes widened in shock. More and more were pouring over the undefended stone wall. Two legions? Three? Four? He could see the flag and even the eagle of one of them making straight for him, an ‘X’, which he knew meant ‘ten’ to the Romans. And they were already in the camp, swarming among the tents and supply dumps, some pausing to light torches, preparing to burn the place.

The Nitiobrige king found himself using language that his wife had almost succeeded in suppressing over their long years of marriage as he tried to decide what he could do. He needed his sword; his armour; his boots; something to eat and a lie down for preference…

What he actually had time for was to swear in a manner that would have his wife hitting him with a spoon and to run for his life. With a backward glance at the fine sword standing in the corner, which had been his father’s before him, Teutomarus ran from the tent door, his bare feet feeling every pebble and twig on the slope as the sun blasted his bare torso. His hand came round at a dreadful twinge to press on the sore spot at his back as he reached his horse, which was busy munching the few longer tufts of grass left here.

Nearby, a Roman officer, close to the ‘X’ standard, caught sight of him and ran towards him, half a dozen of his legionaries pelting alongside. The elderly king felt a moment of panic and, ignoring the sharp wrench across his lumbar region, bent double and wrenched out the iron piton that tethered his beautiful horse.

With a yelp of pain, he tried to straighten again, but discovered that his body would not allow him, limiting him once more to a stoop. With difficulty and pain, the old king grasped the reins and hauled himself up to the beast’s back. His saddle was in the corner of his tent too, and he hadn’t ridden bareback since his youth. Grasping the reins and whimpering, he tried to gee the beast up. His horse seemed to be having the same sort of morning as him, and it took a lot more effort than he was really willing to put in to get the beast moving.

The Roman officer was close now, his shining cuirass and red tunic bright in the morning sun, as was the fine, decorative blade he held high.

The horse moved. To a walk. To a canter.

He was going to make it.

One of the legionaries around the officer paused for a moment, his arm coming back, and he cast a pilum with surprising accuracy. Teutomarus, craning with pain as he rode to keep his eyes on the attackers, saw the throw and jerked the reins desperately. The iron point scored a line along the horse’s flank in its passage, causing the animal to bolt. He barely registered the Roman officer berating the legionary for his throw for some reason. Instead, he held on tight as the animal’s instincts took it and its rider away from danger at breakneck pace, sending wave after wave of agony through his back. He was in a tremendous amount of pain, but he was alive and moving out of danger. Now to find his men, present a force against the Romans and get a signal to Vercingetorix as fast as possible.

* * * * *

Furius and Fabius roared with rage as they raced up the gentle grassy slope and across the Gallic camp. The Eighth had been given the left flank, closer to the west and to the Gauls who were currently massed on the twin hills nearby. The former tribunes, now centurions once more and carefully placed in charge of men who had not been present at the mess that had resulted in them being here, led their centuries with the fierce voracity of men with something to prove.

A number of Gauls remained in the camp, mostly the sick or injured, though there were a few hale and hearty types who put up as stiff resistance as could be expected given their scant numbers and the strength of the army pouring up the hillside towards them, swarming over the stone wall and flooding the camp, already torching tents.

There were signs, to the trained eye, that the Gauls had not been quite as complacent as the Romans had initially imagined: scrape marks where crates and barrels and sacks of goods had recently been removed to the safety of the oppidum walls, bald spots where pack animals had been grazing before they’d moved, discoloured patches of grass where supply tents had been taken down and shifted to safety. But still there were plenty of targets for the torches.

‘Spread out,’ bellowed Petreius, the Eighth’s primus pilus, making sure his legion covered as much ground and caused as much destruction as possible. His musicians began to blast out those commands but they were hard to discern, given similar tunes being blared by the other legions across the slope and the honking and farting of the Gallic carnyxes up on the oppidum in response to the Roman attack. The sheer web of conflicting notes from numerous sources was headache-inducing.

A small group of the camp’s occupants had caught sight of the men of the Eighth, grabbed their weapons and run back up the slope towards the oppidum wall. Where they planned to go was anyone’s guess, since in both directions other units from the Eighth were in evidence, going about their destructive work.

‘Come on,’ Fabius shouted across to Furius, pointing his sword in the direction of the dozen or so enemy warriors rushing for the oppidum’s rampart, towering above them. Two of the men glinted with gold and bronze, marking them as nobles or commanders among the enemy, and Fabius grinned, recognising the means of their redemption in the eyes of their commanders. The order had been to kill, not capture, but Fabius felt certain that there was an implicit clause in the case of enemy commanders. Surely they would be too valuable to Caesar to kill out of hand.

And so, as the Eighth spread throughout the western third of the camp, burning tents and supplies, killing the few men they came across and taking whatever they could, two centuries raced on towards the upper slopes.

The dozen enemies were at the wall now, even as the legionaries hurtled after them. Fabius watched with a dawning of clarity as three ropes were lowered by unseen men above, atop the ramparts, the lower part of each rope looped and tied to provide a foothold. Even as the hundred and more legionaries closed on the scene, the first three men began to rise up the wall’s face, their feet in the loops, gripping tight as they were hauled upwards. Above them on the ramparts more native signallers were blaring out horrible melodies over the general din of the oppidum and work being undertaken to strengthen its walls, drowning out the more distant Roman musicians back down the slope.

Few legionaries had brought pila. The officers had given the order before the assault that only soldiers who felt comfortable carrying the bulky missile on the climb need do so, and most had left them back in camp to allow for an unencumbered ascent. Additionally, most of those who had bothered had cast them while crossing the wall in the initial surge. Yet one man in Furius’ century still carried his and the man paused, drawing back his arm and casting the pilum. The missile sailed true, striking one of the rising figures in the back. The fleeing Gaul cried out, his back arched around the weapon as his grip loosened and he fell from the rope.

Fabius almost laughed as he heard his friend turn to the pilum-throwing legionary, admonishing him. What if he’d hit the noblemen? ‘Make sure you take the two nobles alive,’ Furius yelled above the din and chaos as Fabius concentrated on the enemy group ahead. ‘I don’t care about the rest,’ Furius went on, ‘but those two come back with…’

The centurion’s voice trailed off, and Fabius had to turn his head considerably to see what had happened, his missing left eye narrowing his field of vision.

He lurched to a halt, his men still running past him.

Furius was standing, still waving with his sword as if berating his men, apparently not even noticing the wet crimson shaft of the arrow protruding from his throat-apple. The flights had prevented the missile passing straight through his neck, becoming lodged in his spine at the back.

Fabius felt his blood run cold as his old friend turned slowly towards him, a look of utter incomprehension spreading across his face, trying to look down and see what had happened, but the motion impossible as the arrow kept his jaw up. The mortally wounded centurion tried to call over to his friend, but all that came out was a gobbet of blood. Furius frowned as his sword fell from suddenly limp fingers and he collapsed to his knees, his chin bouncing off the arrow shaft with the movement.

He tried to shake his head in dismay, but it wouldn’t move. The dying centurion’s soldiers were now pulling to a halt in distress, not sure what to do.

‘Bastards,’ snarled Fabius with a vicious edge and, tearing his eyes from his stricken friend, pointed at the wall. ‘Get the fuckers!’ he bellowed to the men of both centuries. A dozen paces away, Furius, finally succumbing to the dreadful wound, toppled forward, where he lay face down with his legs kicking out spasmodically.

Somewhere above the din of battle and destruction and the thunder of his pulse in his ears, Fabius could vaguely hear the sound of a cornicen blowing calls to the legions. It mattered not. His men, and those of Furius, were now at the wall, stabbing and smashing at the Gauls as they attempted to flee. Two of the enemy were now two-thirds of the way up the wall and still rising. The third rope had been lowered again, and one of the nobles was struggling onto it as the men of the Eighth hacked away at his guards.

‘Fabius!’

He turned, his face pale and stony, to see Petreius, the primus pilus, waving at him.

‘That was the call to fall back.’

‘No.’ He’d heard a call, but hadn’t been able to hear precisely what command it carried. Not that it mattered to him at this point.

Petreius jogged over. ‘Don’t be stupid, man. We’ve done what we came to do. Now come on.’

‘No.’ Fabius turned his back on his commander, who raised his voice over the clamour.

‘Retreat, centurion. That’s a direct order.’

His words fell like droplets of water from the back of Fabius as the man ran on for the wall, unheeding.

’Shit,’ sighed Petreius, watching the vengeful veteran heading for the oppidum wall where his men were busy killing the last of the fleeing Gauls. For a moment, the primus pilus dithered. There were other blasts now, and not from Roman instruments. He couldn’t afford to wait. No one could. The Gauls were coming back.

Turning, he spotted his second centurion watching him intently.

‘Get the rest of the legion back away, out of here.’ As the second centurion saluted and began confirming the order to fall back among his men and the other centuries as best he could, realising he would not be able to rely on cornu calls in the din, Petreius took a deep breath and waved his own century on after the two at the wall.

The legionaries, weary from the climb and suffering the extreme effects of the heat in current conditions, shouldered their burden with fortitude and slogged on up the slope after the wayward Fabius and his men. Petreius cast a brief look at the still form of Furius as they passed, taking in the sight with mixed feelings. The man had been a veteran and clearly a daring soldier, but he had been unpredictable and carried a reputation for disobedience, and Petreius had argued against the man’s transfer in the first place. It was looking distinctly as though the man’s friend was cast from a similar mould, too.

At the wall, Fabius watched as his men dispatched the last of the locals, two legionaries trying desperately to slash at the noble on the third rope, who was just out of their reach.

‘Testudo!’ Fabius yelled at the top of his voice. While the majority of the men looked back in confusion or kept trying to catch the rising noble with their blades, nine or ten men reacted with the discipline bred into them and hunched down, bringing their shields up into a temporary roof.

Without pause, Fabius ran and jumped, landing on top of the testudo and racing across three shields with steady feet as the men beneath tried to keep formation under his weight. At the last step, the centurion leapt into the air, his sword lashing out even as his arm reached for the rope.

His gladius sank into the small of the Gallic noble’s back. His free hand missed the rope, but grasped the Gaul’s shoulder, and he clung tight to the thick wool of his tunic. The man screamed at the pain, arching, his fingers slipping from the rope.

For a desperate moment — a heartbeat, two at the most — Fabius was in the air, clinging to the stricken Gaul. But somehow his hand found purchase on the cable and he clung on with all his strength as the nobleman fell with a thud to be finished off by the legionaries below. The rope was still rising, the Gauls above oblivious to the fact that the burden on it was now a Roman and not their own noble. Hurriedly, Fabius dug his foot into the loop and held tight, readying his blade for the moment he reached the top.

Furius was gone. But Fabius was about to be the first man on the walls of Gergovia. His friend was gone, but he would be buried with a corona muralis!

* * * * *

Cavarinos raced alongside Lucterius and Vercingetorix, his horse’s hooves pounding as the three commanders raced ahead of the Gallic force. Upon hearing the call of the Carnyx that had come from a musician of the Nitiobriges, the leaders had realised too late that the gleaming legion in the woods and the supply wagons had been naught but a ruse. Those same Nitiobriges, presumably urged on by their king, who had remained at the oppidum, were now racing along Gergovia’s southern rampart and making for the point where the Romans were still fighting in small groups. Most of the legionaries were on the retreat now, making their way back towards the camp below, though with considerably less order than Cavarinos was used to seeing.

‘We’ve missed our chance,’ he yelled as they rode, the cavalry keeping pace behind, the infantry falling away further back, yet running as fast as they could.

‘What?’

‘Missed our chance. They’re pulling back.’

‘Oh, my friend,’ Vercingetorix smiled, ‘we have time yet.’

As Cavarinos frowned, his king turned and waved the cavalry on and down the slope after the retreating Romans.

‘Are you mad?’ Cavarinos yelled. ‘That’s too steep for cavalry!’

‘Not for Lucterius’ men. And look: the Romans are in disarray. Their middle legion is holding together well as they fall back, but the nearest one is all over the hillside, split up. And the far one…’ The king chuckled. ‘See the Aedui cavalry coming in from the east? Lack of communication can lose a battle. See how the farthest legion panics. They think the Aedui are ours!’

Cavarinos stared. It was true. At first glance, the Romans were pulling back well, but closer attention brought forth all the weaknesses. It looked like the legions to the east and west were not heeding the calls their commanders had put out, fleeing in all directions, so long as it was down, some even forming up to fight their own allied cavalry.

‘And look how slow they move,’ Cavarinos added. ‘They’re exhausted from the climb.’

‘Let us make them wish they had never set foot on our mountain,’ the king laughed and kicked his horse into action alongside the cavalry, who were now descending on the heels of the slower Romans, whooping and shouting with glee.

* * * * *

Fronto paused on the slope, heaving in gulps of air, sweat running into his eyes and soaking his helmet liner. Caesar was looking distinctly disgruntled.

‘The Eighth are falling back, but they’re in trouble. It looks like the enemy horse are riding them down as they retreat. A few of the better officers are trying to form the contra equitas, but they just can’t do it properly on this terrain and with no pila. They obviously weren’t expecting a cavalry assault. Who would? What mad bastard rides a horse down that slope?’

The sight of centuries trying to pull together further across the slope and create angled shield-walls was bad enough, but few men still had a pilum, so the formation would be unlikely to stop the enemy horse anyway.

The general rubbed his bare head angrily, his helmet long-since cast to the ground, sweat sprinkling his bald pate. ‘And yet note how few of them fall. They are good. The Eighth will remain in great danger until they reach level ground and can form against cavalry.’

‘There are a few centuries trapped at the top, too,’ Fronto noted, pointing to where several Roman figures were visible actually on Gergovia’s own rampart top.

‘And the Thirteenth are ignoring the call and forming against the Aedui, for the love of Venus!’

Fronto nodded. ‘They’re new to the army, most of the Aedui. They’re baring the wrong shoulder to signify they’re friendly, and our men don’t recognise their standards, so they resemble the enemy more than anything else.’

‘If the Thirteenth don’t hurry up and fall back, they’ll be cut off when the main Gallic force arrives,’ Caesar despaired. ‘See how more of their cavalry already close on them beneath the rampart wall? I am incensed, Fronto. I am quite livid. Someone’s head will roll for this!’

‘Later, sir. For now, we need to sort this mess out.’

Caesar nodded and turned to the cornicen standing nearby waiting to receive new orders. ‘You know the calls for the Thirteenth?’

‘Some of them, sir.’

‘Point that thing down at the valley, take the deepest breath you can, and give the cohorts back in camp the order to support the Eighth and form the contra equitas on the lowest slope. And do it loud. No one can hear the calls on this hill.’

The cornicen saluted and turned, blowing the staccato codes.

‘That should prevent the enemy from pushing their advantage and hopefully allow the Eighth to reform.’

Fronto nodded. ‘We need to advance the Tenth again, sir. Give the Thirteenth time to sort themselves out and begin to retreat. Shame we can’t get a message to the Fifth in those woods.’

Caesar pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance as he watched enemy warriors both on horse and on foot flooding back across the ruined camp, closing on the legions even as they tried to pull back. ‘Do what you need to here, Fronto. I am bound for the Thirteenth to have a few choice words with Sextius.’

* * * * *

Marcus Petreius, chief centurion of the Eighth legion, stepped back, his bloodied sword trembling in his weary hand. There were less than a century’s worth of men remaining below the wall, from the initial three. They had been unable to retreat as the enemy cavalry raced past them through the camp, making for the bulk of the Tenth and Thirteenth legions and racing down the slope after the rest of the Eighth. Wave after wave of the horsemen had stopped to engage the trapped Romans below the wall, and each fresh attack drastically reduced their numbers.

Above, on the wall top there had been a furious fight, as they could hear. Against all odds, that madman Fabius had secured the top of the rope and sent all three back down for others to climb. Five men in total had reached the top, but the increased shouts in the Gallic tongue and the growing desperation of Fabius’ imprecations in Latin spoke volumes as to how things were going up there.

As Petreius kicked away the flailing hand of the last enemy rider he had dispatched, he glanced around. The slopes were chaos, but not as bad as they were about to become. The main enemy force had finally arrived from the twin hills, thousands of warriors on foot, all screaming for blood. The cavalry had harried the Romans and caused the chaos, but the infantry would finish them all, given the time.

‘We have to go,’ he bellowed to the man clutching the century’s standard in crimson fingers, the signifer himself one of the many fallen in this disaster.

‘What about him?’ the man wheezed, clutching his side and looking up at the unseen fight on the wall top. Petreius turned his own gaze upwards, just as a shape launched out from the rampart. The two men stepped a few paces apart hurriedly as the body hit the ground between them with a wet thump. Centurion Fabius had died hard, his left arm gone at the elbow, his head at an odd angle, neck half severed through, his face partially caved in by some heavy blow and holes and slashes all across his front. He must have been dead before he hit the ground.

‘I think that’s our sign,’ Petreius breathed. He turned to see that more horsemen had appeared along with the infantry, and were racing towards them, whooping as they went.

‘Sir…’

‘I see them. Get that standard and the rest of the men back down to the camp.’

‘But sir?’

‘Go. While you have time.’

Casting his eyes around, Petreius spotted a pilum still jutting from that fallen nobleman’s back. Gripping it, he hauled it with a sucking sound from the body and pushed the tip against the turf to straighten the neck before raising it against the onrush of four horsemen.

‘Go!’ he bellowed, bracing himself.

The legionary, gripping the precious standard tight in his red, slippery hands, turned and began to run down the slope, shouting the call to fall back. The rest of the men were not slow to follow his lead, pounding off down through the enemy camp towards the relative safety of the valley below.

Petreius saw one of the horsemen turn, aiming for the standard bearer, and drew back his arm. ‘No you don’t, dickhead.’

With a heave and a grunt, he threw the missile, striking the horseman in the shoulder and knocking him from his mount where he rolled over and over on the grass, convulsing as he came to a stop. Petreius reached for a cavalry spear that lay nearby, snapped down to less than two thirds of its usual length, and raised it just in time to meet the next horseman face to face. The spear point took the Gaul in the chest as he swung his sword wide, but the Gallic blade came on unstoppably even as its wielder faltered, the edge smashing into the centurion’s mail shirt, splintering his ribs.

Petreius let go of the spear and drew his dagger in his free hand, wincing at the pain in his side. The remaining two horsemen turned and moved back to skirt this Roman lunatic, and Petreius staggered for a moment, righting himself as hundreds of howling warriors descended upon him on foot.

‘Come on then, you hairy fleapits. Let me show you how a Roman dies!’

* * * * *

Fronto glanced left and right, trying to keep himself aware of everything. The Tenth had moved in dense formation at an oblique angle to the oppidum’s walls, not an easy thing to do on sloping terrain like this, but his veteran centurions had managed with relative ease under Carbo’s expert leadership. There, they had halted and borne the brunt of the refreshed Gallic attack, the cavalry now flooding the camp and coming against them hard. Had Fronto had more pila among his men, they might even have been able to fight the horsemen back, but with so few, all they were able to do was shelter from them behind the relative safety of the two-tier shield-wall, the more talented soldiers among them turning their shields slightly every time a horse got close enough and slashing out with their gladius, maiming a hoof. A dozen or more of the enemy had been brought down this way, but that was just a bonus to Fronto. The main task was to protect the Thirteenth at this point and stop this cavalry attack from getting in amongst them.

Gallic warriors were now beginning to flood the ramparts above them, and bows and slings were in evidence. Once they started using them in force, this anti-cavalry formation would no long be viable. The enemy foot were on the approach too, behind the cavalry and no more than a few hundred paces away, moving carefully to negotiate the slope as they passed their own horsemen.

Behind, the Thirteenth were beginning to form up, Caesar having somehow managed to get through to the various commanders with the aid of Sextius — red faced and distraught — and a few signifers and musicians. If they hurried, they would be out of danger before the enemy foot got here.

A honking noise rose from the east, and Fronto squinted. The Thirteenth were now pulling back down the hill in ordered centuries, but the call had come from the Aedui cavalry, who even now were racing past the Thirteenth and making for the main fight. Fronto felt a flood of relief. Thousands of allied horse would make all the difference. The Aedui could deal with the enemy cavalry and take some of the pressure off the Tenth.

‘Carbo?’

‘Sir?’ bellowed the senior centurion from the end of the line.

‘Are the Thirteenth clear yet, d’you think?

‘As clear as they’ll get, sir.’

‘Good. Let’s abandon this formation. Individual century shield-walls. We’re pulling back to reform at the bottom of the slope.’

The centurion nodded and spoke hurriedly to his signifer. Fronto looked around and spotted the nervous figure of a young tribune. Was he the one who had warned him of the assault on the large camp? He really couldn’t tell. He was young, though, and nervous.

‘You! Tribune.’

The young officer scurried across and saluted.

‘Is your horse still nearby?’ Most of the beasts had been taken back down the slope the moment the officers had dismounted and joined their units in the thick of things, but half a dozen were still nearby, grazing contentedly as though nothing untoward had happened.

‘She’s gone back down sir.’

‘Then take someone else’s. Get back to the white rocks camp. I want every pilum, auxiliary javelin and cavalry spear in camp brought out to where the army will form up at the bottom of the slope. We’re going to stop them there, or die trying.’

The tribune saluted, looking rather relieved. Fronto watched him mount up and begin to pick his way down the slope with a great deal more care than the Gauls, and considerably slower, too. His attention was claimed a moment later by the cornu blasting out commands for the Tenth, who were formed up close enough to hear them. Carbo, ever the competent professional, had taken Fronto’s basic orders and expanded upon them with additional detail. The first and second cohorts formed into blocks of four centuries, presenting shield-walls to the enemy as they began to move down the slope. The third cohort formed up on the right, at the top of the slope, presenting an angled wall with a half-roof of shields over the front three rows of men against missiles from the ramparts above, protecting the flank as they pulled back. The remaining cohorts were already moving down the slope at the fastest pace they could maintain, protected from the rear by their fellows.

And suddenly the three cohorts were moving, their pace hampered by the need to maintain difficult formations on the dreadful terrain. Fronto moved to the downhill end, away from the danger of falling arrows, taking a moment to make sure that Bucephalus had been among the horses the runners had taken back earlier and was not now being left grazing for the enemy to claim.

The journey was one of the worst manoeuvres Fronto could remember from his entire career. The sun beat down, making the legions seethe with heat, their armour almost burning to the touch, sweat running in rivers from every man, yet all their concentration was required to keep the formation as tight as possible. Once Carbo had judged them far enough from the ramparts, he allowed the Third cohort to drop their shield roof, which did little to help the rest, but was clearly a relief to the men who had formed it.

And all the way down they were harried by the enemy cavalry and infantry, men falling out of the shield-wall, caught by a spear or a flailing horse hoof as they went until finally the enemy horse vanished, pulled back uphill to deal with the newly-arrived Aedui. The men had no time to recover, though, the pressure previously put on them by the horse taken up by the foot in their absence, causing more and more casualties and gaps in the line that the Tenth managed to plug with practiced manoeuvres.

Fronto glanced along the line to find Carbo, ready to give the order for increased pace, but where the primus pilus should have been was just a conspicuous gap. His heart sank.

Worse than the terrain, the sweat, the temperature and the death toll — worse than all that together and even Carbo’s loss — was the dejection. Every man remained silent, apart from the grunts of effort or the occasional curse cast either at the enemy or the treacherous slope. And yet despite their silence, Fronto knew what every man felt like shouting about, for he felt it too. This attack should have been simple. It should have been yet another genius exercise by Caesar’s legions — a swift in and out with minimal fuss depriving the enemy of their comfortable camp, defences and supplies.

Instead, it had become a shambles. A dreadful retreat. A near catastrophe, in fact. Individually, the factors that had turned success into chaos might have been overcome. The inability of some units to hear their orders over the combination of distance and din from the oppidum above. The apparent insubordination of the Eighth, who had pushed on to the oppidum walls against their orders, and the enemy that came upon them divided, managing to turn that legion’s orderly retreat into a panicked mob. The unexpected willingness of enemy cavalry to launch down a steep slope that no Roman horseman would consider, and thereby harry the fleeing legions. The panic that had broken out throughout the Thirteenth at the sight of Gallic cavalry on their unprotected flank and not recognising them as allies. Individually: troublesome issues. Together: a seething cauldron of chaos.

As the men of the Tenth reached the flatter ground at the base of the oppidum’s hill once more, they found the three cohorts of the Thirteenth from the white rocks camp formed up protectively and fell in alongside them. The Eighth were now forming up as well, presenting a barrier.

But it was too late. The legions had lost the day.

The enemy cavalry had turned and begun to return to their camps. The Aedui had considered their task complete when the legions had pulled back and had broken off and raced for the main camp. And the rebel forces en masse were returning to the heights, shouting jubilantly, whooping with victory and laughing.

The legions were not laughing. The remaining manoeuvres as the Romans prepared to repel the enemy were carried out in sullen and unhappy silence, though it rapidly became apparent that the enemy were not coming. The day was over.

They had lost.

That very fact rattled around Fronto’s brain as he knew it did with every man present. Despite dreadful predicaments and awful odds, ambushes, traps and disasters, Caesar’s army had not suffered even one single defeat in their seven years in Gaul as far as anyone could remember. Oh yes, Cicero had been in trouble for a while, and Sabinus and Cotta had lost a legion in the forest, but they were individual actions by unprepared or foolhardy commanders, and notably never with Caesar present. Today was something different.

It appeared that Caesar’s army could lose.

Chapter 15

Gergovia

‘Every man of those cohorts involved in the unwarranted assault on the oppidum will henceforth be punished thus: those men having excused duty status shall be returned to full active duty. All men — from the centurionate to the newest recruit — will be given the most menial duties your legion can offer for the foreseeable future. Your training and exercise time is doubled, excepting times when forced marches prevent it. Your rations are hereby reduced by a third and wine rations by half. Clearly you have grown insubordinate and undisciplined. You will prove to your commanders that you are worthy of the legion who houses, feeds and pays you, and you will train and work until you are fit to take your place at the fore once again.’

The ranks upon ranks of gleaming legionaries remained silent in the sizzling morning sun, aware that the slightest noise could bring disastrous consequences.

‘That being said, I am aware that, as much as the blame for this debacle can be laid at the feet of your rashness, the terrain, the enemy’s unexpected retaliation, the inability to identify signals across the mountain and other smaller factors have to be taken into consideration, and so there shall be no other punishments.’

The general glanced sidelong at Antonius, who nodded.

‘Indeed, I am, on a base level, proud of the daring and fearlessness of you all. For, though by your arrogant insubordination you brought about our defeat here, the manner in which it occurred will become a tale of heroism someday. For no terrain or enemy or even the walls of that great oppidum stopped you when your blood was up. So, from this, take away not a loss for our army, but the knowledge that only our own pride and fierceness brought about our downfall, not the strength or daring of our enemy.’

There was an almost imperceptible straightening of backs. Fronto looked along the lines. The Tenth were only a little depleted after the battle on the hillside. The Thirteenth were missing a few among their numbers. But the Eighth had had their ranks ravaged as they fled down the slope. Across the army, the roll call this morning had confirmed just under a thousand men missing or dead, including forty six centurions, among them Carbo, Fabius and Furius. It had been a heavy blow, costing the army over half a legion’s worth of veteran officers.

He looked across to where Atenos stood, stony faced, at the head of the Tenth, having stepped in to fill Carbo’s boots at Fronto’s request. The centurion looked as fierce as Fronto had ever seen such an officer. Gods help the Gauls if they did decide to follow up on their success… but he knew now that they would not do so. The legions bristled with steel, iron and bronze, arrayed not for parade, but for battle, some half mile from the large camp and facing the great bulk of Gergovia.

The entire army had mobilized before dawn, striking camp. The majority of the men had gone about their business dejected and confused. They had expected to be disciplined by their officers, and to be instead given duties and left to it had worried them all. But this morning, they had packed all the tents and all the carts. The wagons, both supply and artillery, had moved to the river, where even now they were filtering across the rebuilt bridge to the east bank, where they would be safe from any enemy action. After all, how many times had an army been defeated in the field by the unexpected loss of their baggage train?

And so by the time the morning sun had risen above the eastern hills to bake the grassland, the legions had been assembled there, along with the auxilia, the cavalry and every last unit present, ready for action and with their baggage safe.

Caesar had spent the previous night alone in his tent, though every officer had occasionally heard his raised voice as he raved in private. But in that time, he had decided upon his course of action, and upon what needed to be said to the men to both scold them and yet not ruin the army’s morale entirely. And so this morning’s gathering had served a dual purpose: to allow Caesar to address the men, certainly, but because they were arrayed in battle formation and in full kit, they also presented a temptation to the enemy. Indeed, one of Varus’ cavalrymen had ridden bare-shouldered up to the oppidum gate just as the first rays of dawn had struck the walls and had cast a spear point first into the dirt, offering battle in the old manner.

Nothing had happened. The Gauls had not attacked, lurking instead within their fortress and watching the Romans bake on the plain.

‘The enemy are not coming, Caesar,’ Antonius said quietly, the officers around him nodding their agreement. The general turned and looked up at the great bulk of Gergovia. It needled him deep, right down to the bone, to fail here. Not once in all their time in Gaul had his legions failed to take an oppidum. But Gergovia was unassailable by siege. It would take too long, and this rebellion had to be put down soon, before all the tribes of Gaul decided they could join in, and perhaps even the Germans and the settled citizens of Narbonensis. No. There was not time for a siege. And the Gauls seemed happy not to descend from the heights. They had no issue with delays, for the longer Caesar floundered, the stronger they would become. The only answer now was to abandon Gergovia and try to draw the rebels down into a proper fight. The general sighed and turned to his men, breathing in the fresh warm air.

‘The enemy are apparently afeared to meet us in battle and prefer to lurk behind their walls. See how without the slopes and walls they cannot face us? We must bring them to us, now, in order to defeat them. Labienus and his legions are dealing with the rebels’ allies in the north. The enemy yet hope for Aedui support, and we know that that tribe still waver. The army will now move into Aedui land. We will put down any rebellious spirit among that people and prevent the others who are subservient to them from joining the rebels. It is my belief that the Aedui are of such importance to the enemy leader that he will not allow us to do this and will come down from his eyrie to stop us.’

It was a feasible plan. Fronto was not so sure the enemy would commit that easily, for they were ever wily, but it was the best they could do in the circumstances, and better that the army concentrate on a new direction for the campaign than sit for weeks beneath that oppidum, brooding on their failure.

‘Officers,’ Caesar bellowed, ‘note your positions in column and deploy your men. We march for Aedui lands.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos leaned back in his seat, stretching.

‘They are leaving,’ he sighed. ‘Against the odds, you made good on your word, my king. Gergovia stands and Caesar has fallen.’

Vercingetorix nodded. ‘Caesar moves towards the Aedui now. He will impose his will upon them once more and thinks to undo our ties there. But he moves slowly and in force, and we will set his allies against him. Word comes from the north that Critognatos is bound for us with a further four thousand men, the final recruits of his mission. He has done well and our forces swell to almost the point where Gergovia cannot hold us.’

The king smiled. ‘But here we stay for now. Litavicus the Aeduan is readying himself and his companions, along with ambassadors from all the tribes in our alliance. This morning, they will ride at speed by ways unknown to the Romans. He is bound for Bibracte, where he will finish the task of bringing his tribe to our banner. Other agents of his and ours will move on Noviodunum in Aedui lands, where the Romans have established their supply base. When Caesar reaches his destination, he will find the Aedui arrayed against him and his supply system failed. By then our forces will be at their fullest and we will descend from Gergovia and move against him.’

‘You think to meet Caesar in battle?’ one of the Senone chiefs frowned.

‘I do. We will need to visit Aedui lands to settle our alliance with them, and we will defeat Caesar there. Or if he flees, which he may do due to his untenable supply situation, he will be forced to flee north, and we can push him back and back until we cut him down.’

‘We won here because the gods willed it,’ muttered the Senone. ‘This place is sacred to your Arvernus. He would not allow the Romans to take this place. What if Taranis does not feel the same on the plains? What if Toutatis does not favour us? The Senones have fallen to him more than once, despite our gods watching over us. What is different now?’

Cavarinos rolled his eyes and, noting the slight tinge of anger hovering on the edge of the king’s expression, he turned to the Senone chief. ‘We won here because Vercingetorix outthought Caesar and our army outfought him. Arvernus did nothing but watch the Romans suffer at the hands of men.’

The difficult chieftain glanced nervously at the rough statue of Arvernus that dominated this large meeting hall, making signs of protection and warding. ‘Do not anger your gods, Arvernian. The gods only protect us when it is in their interest.’

‘And what of Ogmios?’ Cavarinos said sharply. Vercingetorix gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head, but he chose to ignore it. If these credulous fools would fight or fall on their belief in the gods’ support, then he had the means to bring it about. Teeth clenched, he reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew the bundle from within. The curse was still well-wrapped, unopened since the day the druid had passed it to him in the Carnute woodlands. Standing, he began to unwind the wrapping and let it fall to the ground, holding the slate tablet aloft.

‘Arvernus watches over the Arverni, for we are his children. But all the tribes pay our dues to Taranis, and to Toutatis, and to Cernunnos, and — of course — to Ogmios. And Ogmios favours us, for here is one of his legendary curses, gifted by the God himself through the druids of the Carnutes to us. When the time is right, it will be used to destroy our enemy. But know through this gift that Ogmios is with us, as are all the gods of the tribes, for we struggle to free their people from the Roman heel. Do you now doubt the validity of our cause? Do you doubt that we can win? Do you doubt that the gods are with us?’

Cavarinos stopped, breathing heavily. He was not a public speaker by nature. He was a straightforward man and preferred a logical argument to rhetorical and theatrical speech, but something had surfaced within him and carried him on the crest of a wave of oratory. He looked around at the assembled chiefs of several dozen tribes, every gaze in the room locked on the heavy yet brittle prize he held above his head. He had them. At this very moment, he realised, they would do anything he asked. He could even depose Vercingetorix and command in his place. All he…

Cavarinos blinked and lowered his arms, stooping to gather the wrappings and begin covering the tablet once more, finally slipping it into its leather container, while the silent masses around him watched his every move.

He straightened, folding his arms.

‘We have beaten Caesar, who some said could not be beaten. We now number more than he, we are fighting for a just cause, and the gods watch over us. How can we lose?’

He sat back as the room erupted, feeling the weight of the item at his belt more than ever before. Still, at least he had finally used it for something. As a talisman he had known it would have value and, looking around at the effect he had stirred, it seemed even he had underestimated that power.

* * * * *

Fronto slowed Bucephalus to a walk, rubbing his temple wearily as he fell in alongside Caesar on his white mare, red cloak rippling in the breeze. The general’s expression had not changed or softened once during the day they had ridden with the huge column of men and carts across the Elaver and northeast towards Aedui territory.

‘Is this a good idea, Caesar?’

The general remained silent, and Fronto looked left and right again, away from the column. A sizeable force was moving off south, armour glinting in the hazy sunlight, officers at the head, supply wagons to the rear. To the left, northwards, two lone mounted figures rode steadily towards the crest of a hill.

‘I mean, splitting the army further,’ he added for clarification.

The general glanced once, briefly, to the south, and turned his stony gaze on Fronto.

‘It is only the Narbonensis garrison and the two newly-raised young legions, and they are returning to their original task.’

‘But we can be fairly certain that now Vercingetorix’s army outnumbers ours, and yet you diminish our forces on a whim?’

There was a flicker of annoyance in Caesar’s expression and Fronto noted it gladly. Better to have the general annoyed than this stilted, impassive silence that was so untouchable.

‘A whim? Fronto, every week more tribes in Gaul flock to the rebel’s banner. While I intend to crush his army here, I can no longer afford to leave our province unguarded. What if the man turns his gaze south? How long will the senate support my governorship if I allow Narbo to fall to the enemy? No. The Narbonensis garrison are going back where they belong. They have honed their craft in a useful campaign among the Arverni, and my cousin Lucius will use them well to hold our border against any incursion.’

Fronto nodded hesitantly. To some extent, he agreed. The garrison had done more than expected, and the idea of Arverni rebels stomping around Narbo — a second home to Fronto — chilled him. But not quite as much as the possibility of the legions finding themselves facing two-to-one odds suddenly. ‘Then perhaps we should meet up with Labienus?’ he suggested. ‘He must have dealt with the northern risings by now.’

‘We will combine with Labienus in due course, Fronto. For now, let us stick with the plan. I wish to secure the Aedui, even if it does not draw the rebels down to us.’

Fronto turned his gaze once more on the two horsemen as they disappeared over the rise. The Aeduans who had brought the enemy cavalry back to them: Eporedirix and Viridomarus. Of all the Aedui, they surely must be the most trustworthy considering their earlier actions, and yet something about the two riding off without any Roman influence over them sat badly with him. The pair rode for Noviodunum, where the new supply base was now fully operational, supporting the army’s campaign in the field. He shuddered despite the heat.

With a squeeze shut of his eyes, Fronto reached up and clutched the figure of Fortuna around his neck. His bad feelings had been wrong before, hadn’t they?

* * * * *

Noviodunum seethed. The two riders reined in on the slope of the Liger’s south bank and looked across the wide bridge at the place. The last time either of them had been here, the bridge had been sturdy and wide enough to drive across a fully-laden cart. The new bridge was twice that wide and more, constructed on timber piles the size of which was truly impressive. The Romans had brought their engineering to the Aedui oppidum.

It appeared that the town, which rose atop a low hill on the north bank, had more or less been given over to the Roman depot. Instead of forming a new palisaded enclosure outside as was normally the case, the Aedui had been made to abandon more than half the place, the occupants either moved to whatever housing was available or sent to take part in the cavalry force that even now rode with Caesar. The entire western half of the walled oppidum — the lower part in fact, nearer the bridge — seemed to have been demolished and then filled with Roman warehouses in ordered lines. It looked appalling. There was little Gallic about the place any more. Only half the town remained, and that would probably be playing host to the Roman personnel. The rest of it resembled little more than a Roman fort.

‘What are we doing?’ Viridomarus breathed quietly.

‘What we must. We took an oath, my friend,’ Eporedirix replied, though the sight of this place soured his soul too.

‘But Vercingetorix beat Caesar. It is becoming clear that we gave our oath to the wrong man. Look at what Rome is doing to our lands.’

Eporedirix opened his mouth to defend his position, but his heart simply wasn’t in it. Caesar was losing. Only three days ago the man had sent his own cousin with many cohorts south to defend Roman lands in case the rebels decided to turn south. And the rebel forces continued to grow, despite the Aedui remaining loyal to their oath. Caesar had lost his first battle, and now he looked to defend rather than attack. The tide had begun to turn, and the longer the Aedui held to an oath that doomed them, the more they stood to lose when Caesar’s army was finally driven back south.

‘How can we break an oath? It is the worst thing a man can do. I fought against my conscience when we informed Caesar of Litavicus’ treachery. But I held to my vow, despite the damage it did us.’

‘An oath to an enemy of our people is no oath to keep, Eporedirix.’

The two men rode slowly across the wide bridge. As they passed a small Roman guard post at the city’s gate they were questioned, as though they were passing into Roman lands and not into an oppidum belonging to their own tribe. Eporedirix told the men whence they had come, showing the documents with Caesar’s own bull seal, which saw them past with no difficulty, but the very necessity of doing so rankled. This was their homeland.

Separating the main area of Roman activity from the older oppidum structures was a huge corral full of horses with Roman tack and blankets. Men in Roman tunics moved among them, as well as what appeared to be Hispanic men speaking in their thick, languid accents. What had become of the place?

The two men were grateful to pass the rows of orderly warehouses and reach buildings that at least looked like Aedui houses, despite the signs here and there in Latin and the figures in Roman tunics and bare legs moving about them as though they owned this city. And there, at a corner and with a view down across the river, was the tavern they sought. The place had played host to them on more than one previous visit, and the owner was an old friend.

The two men tied their horses to the hitching post out front and strode into the bar, blinking as they adjusted to the dim interior. A dozen or so Aedui in their woollen tunics and trousers, wild hair and flowing moustaches fell silent for a moment as they turned to the door, and when they realised that the new arrivals were not Romans, conversation resumed and the room returned to life.

A haven of Aedui culture, apparently, amid the Roman changes.

The two men took a seat at a table in the corner, and Eporedirix hunched forwards and spoke quietly, unheard above the general hum by any bar his companion.

‘What now?’ The two men were here to support the Roman garrison and aid them in keeping the people of Noviodunum working in good faith. The documents they carried commanded the Aedui officials here to grant the two men anything they required on the proconsul’s authority. And yet somehow they felt more comfortable here in the embrace of their countrymen than the foreigners they were here to aid.

‘Now,’ Viridomarus murmured, ‘we need to decide, I think, whether we are Aedui, or Roman.’

‘Talk like that is dangerous.’

‘Not as dangerous as choosing the wrong side in a war.’

‘Wait here,’ Eporedirix muttered and, rising, wandered over to the bar, where two locals leaned, supping frothy ale.

As he ordered and the barman fetched two mugs of beer, Eporedirix, feeling the Roman sealed orders like a lead weight beneath his tunic, cleared his throat.

‘I’ve never seen so many Romans in one of our towns.’

‘Bastards,’ snorted one of the men, spitting on the floor in disgust.

The other turned and looked Eporedirix up and down. Apparently satisfied that the new arrival was a true Aeduan, he took a swig and then spoke. ‘Where you from?’

‘Decetio. Not been here in a while. It’s changed a bit.’

‘Bastards,’ repeated the other man and spat again.

‘Who let the Romans have the town?’ Eporedirix asked quietly. ‘Everywhere else they’ve been, they just build an enclosure.’

‘The piece of scum tribune in charge feels nervous. Thinks everyone’s out to get them.’

Eporedirix narrowed his eyes. He’d always prided himself on being able to read between the lines, to pick up on unspoken sentiment. ‘And that’s because they are, aren’t they?’

The man turned a suspicious gaze on him.

‘You heard about Gergovia?’

‘Heard about it?’ Eporedirix replied. ‘I saw it for myself.’

The second man at the bar stopped drinking and turned to him. The newly arrived Aeduan felt the Roman seal beneath his tunic almost burning him from within. Someone at the far side of the bar shut the door at a nod from the innkeeper and slid the lock shut. All eyes turned to him and to his companion who sat at the table in the corner.

‘What really happened there?’

Not a genuine question. Again, Eporedirix picked up on a hidden nuance. A test, then?

‘I was with the Aedui cavalry on the hillside. We were supposed to bare our shoulder to show our allegiance, but… wouldn’t you know it?’ he said with a sly grin. ‘Some enterprising nobleman had us bare our wrong arm and the legion decided we were the enemy and panicked.’

A smile spread across the interrogator’s face. ‘I’d heard the Romans mistook you for enemies. Not why.’

‘I’ve still no idea whether it was a genuine accident,’ Eporedirix replied, ‘or whether one of the commanders decided he’d had enough of Roman orders. Either way, it started a landslide of cock-ups for the Romans, and they ran back east with their tails between their legs.’

The man nodded. ‘We heard they make for Aedui lands. Would that we could give them the same kind of kicking again. I’d always assumed that the Arverni king was just bluster and posture, but it seems he’s actually got what it takes. Still, if Caesar’s hoping for a warm reception among us, he might be surprised.’

‘Oh?’

The man lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone, despite the fact that the inn’s only occupants all seemed to be friends of his.

‘You know about Litavicus?’

Eporedirix shook his head, hoping that word had not spread about how he and Viridomarus had ruined the young noble’s plans to subvert Caesar’s Aeduan cavalry.

‘The Arverni king’s sent him to our leaders. He arrived at Bibracte declaring himself Vercingetorix’s man. If the old oath held true, they’d have taken him and handed him over to Caesar, but they didn’t. They welcomed him in. The new magistrate, Convictolitanis and all the nobles welcomed him.’

Eporedirix felt the world shift slightly beneath him. The Aeduan capital had declared for the rebel? Then everything was changing. Caesar was already on the defensive, but with the Aedui adding to his enemies, his time in this land must be coming to an end. A thrill of excitement flowed through him.

‘An alliance is being negotiated between our tribes,’ the man said quietly. ‘And those bastards out there herding their horses and stacking their grain sacks know nothing about it.’

‘Why wait then?’ came a voice from the corner. Eporedirix turned in surprise to see his companion standing.

‘What?’

‘Why wait for the magistrate and his friends to send out the word? We know what’s happening, and Taranis knows, you and I are aware what’s at stake, Eporedirix. We’ve seen it first-hand. Do we want this mess they’ve made here to become the new standard for Aedui towns? Bollocks to them. Time to throw the Romans out.’

There was a murmur among the locals. The man at the bar narrowed his eyes. ‘If we start something before our leaders are ready, we might bring the Romans right to our door.’

‘So what? Bring them. I’m not afraid of them. Caesar’s failed now. He’s beaten. The Arverni are smaller than us and poorer than us, and they beat him. If the Arverni can rout Caesar, think what the Aedui can do!’

‘There are enough supplies here to keep an army in the field for a year,’ Eporedirix noted. ‘We could see that just on the way through. Better they belong to us than to Caesar.’

Viridomarus nodded. ‘Take the supplies. Send them to Bibracte. Put the garrison and the Roman merchants here to the sword. Strike the first blow.’

‘That’s what the Carnutes did at Cenabum,’ replied the barman quietly. ‘And look what that brought down upon them. Cenabum’s gone. Ash and bone and nothing more.’

‘Then give them nothing to revenge themselves upon,’ Viridomarus snapped. ‘Take all your people to Bibracte with the supplies and burn the place. It’s ruined now anyway. Half of it’s a Roman fort.’

The man at the bar was shaking his head, but there were encouraging nods around the room. Eporedirix took a steadying breath. They were talking about breaking their oath, betraying Caesar, and starting a war. But it made sense. And even those who lived here were in agreement.

‘You know what else is here?’ the man at the bar said in a low whisper.

‘What?’

‘All of Caesar’s hostages.’

Eporedirix blinked. ‘All of them?’

‘All of them. Every noble taken from every tribe as a means of securing loyalty. All here. If they found their way to Bibracte, half the tribes who are carefully staying out of the conflict to save their own would have no more reason to hesitate.’

The bar fell silent, each man looking around expectantly, nervously, eager to make a move, but waiting in trepidation for someone else to do so first. With a half-smile, Eporedirix reached into his tunic and withdrew the sealed parchment he had been given by Caesar himself. Leaning along the bar, he dipped the top of the scroll into one of the tallow candles that lit the interior and watched it catch light. Stepping back, he tilted it so that the flames raced up one edge, reaching the wax seal, where the Roman bull began to contort and change shape, dark red drips falling to the rush-strewn floor like blood.

‘What’s that?’ the barman asked in puzzlement.

‘That,’ Eporedirix smiled unpleasantly, ‘is my oath to Rome.’

* * * * *

The tired scouts who had brought the news roamed the bank ahead, and Fronto leaned back in his saddle, a sense of dread flowing through him. Across the southern hill they had seen a few tendrils of smoke and he had hoped to discover that they rose from the content chimneys and smoke-holes of the Aedui houses. But it seemed that the news that had reached the army two days ago, and which had been so tumultuous as to divert Caesar from his original course of action, was true.

Across the river, where all that remained of the new Roman bridge was a series of blackened stumps rising from the swift, deep current, stood what was left of Noviodunum. A circuit of walls with no gates encircled a pile of charcoal half a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. No horses — the huge herds brought from Hispania and Narbonensis to supply the army. No grain — all the huge supply they had taken at Cenabum and Vellaunoduno. No arms and armour — the majority of the army’s spares brought down from Agedincum. No Romans, military or civilian, and no hostages. No locals. No sign of life at all, in fact. Noviodunum was gone and with it Caesar’s main supply base in Gaul.

‘I had a bad feeling about letting those two Gauls go,’ Fronto sighed. ‘And since the rumours about what happened here are true, then I think we can safely believe the ones about Bibracte having given themselves to the rebels. We have lost the Aedui.’

Caesar was nodding, his face as bleak and stony as ever.

‘General, we’re in ever-increasing danger. The Aedui can still field probably six or seven thousand men. More if they have the time to call up their allies. And if the news of all this has reached Gergovia, be sure Vercingetorix is on the move again somewhere behind us. With due respect, the very idea of drawing him to us is starting to look more than a trifle dangerous.’

Antonius, on the general’s far side, nodded. ‘Gaius, there are perhaps forty or fifty thousand men with us here, all in. If we stay in Aedui lands, we’re going to end up with eighty thousand Gauls — at the last estimate — chasing us down from Arverni lands, and another…’ he glanced at Fronto, ‘… seven thousand Aedui at the minimum from the east. Trapped between two pincers and seriously outnumbered, and all without adequate supplies.’

The general was nodding, or so Fronto thought, but after a moment he realised the man was shaking slightly — actually shuddering with rage. As Caesar turned to him, the man’s aquiline face might be stony cold, but his eyes danced with furious fire.

‘We need Labienus and his legions. It’s time to combine the army once more and put an end to this.’

‘That might not be so simple,’ Antonius said carefully. ‘They’ve burned the bridges again and word is that large groups of enemy horse rove the lands north of here, disrupting communications and any further attempts at supply.’

‘I do not care, Antonius. Find me a ford shallow enough to cross. No small warband will face us on the far side. And for the first time in this entire campaign, we are moving ahead of our enemies, so the lands north of here have not been burned clear of crops and farms. We can forage as we go. Communications may be impossible with the north, but Labienus will still be in contact with Agedincum as his home base. We make for there. And as soon as we have the army whole, I will have this Arvernian king’s head on a spike.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos rode his horse up the steep slope to Bibracte’s western gate with a curious sense of disjointed familiarity. He had been here several times this year, but always in disguise or with some kind of subterfuge, effecting entry with the aid of rebellious elements and fearing what might happen if he were revealed as Arverni to the populace. To be riding towards that wall with his serpent arm-ring in evidence, the standards of the Arverni wavering about them and the rebel king at his side felt distinctly odd. He felt as though he ought to be shrinking down and hiding himself.

‘And so begins a new chapter in our land’s history, eh, Cavarinos?’ Vercingetorix smiled as they approached the gate to the cheers of Aeduan citizens by the roadside.

‘I really hope so. We have Caesar on the defensive now, and we mustn’t let up. Give that man a breather, and you know he’ll recover.’

‘Then we must continue to push him,’ the king smiled, earning an encouraging nod from Vergasillaunus and Critognatos at the far side. Behind them rode the other leaders of the army, including two of Bibracte’s greatest heroes: Teutomarus of the Nitiobriges, who had lost everything in the battle, but had managed to sound the alarm and save the day, and Lucterius of the Cadurci, whose incredible cavalry advance down a slope thought too steep for horses had all but demolished the Eighth legion.

The noise as they passed through the gate and into the great capital of the Aedui was astonishing. It seemed as though the whole tribe lined the streets, standing in doorways and windows, cheering the man who had beaten Caesar. Cavarinos gave up attempting to converse and simply took in every detail of the oppidum he had only seen before from beneath a veil of subterfuge.

The place was probably the greatest oppidum and city of all the tribes. No, it did not have the impressive defences of Gergovia, or the protective swamps of Avaricon. No it did not have the trade of Cenabum or the sacred places of the Carnute cities. But it was all things at once. It was huge — sprawling over a massive mountain and with a double encirclement of ramparts towering over steep slopes. It was sacred, for here was the most powerful place in the land, where often councils of tribes had met and decided the destiny of their peoples. Here was fed by sacred springs that made the place difficult to besiege effectively, and at the same time mystical and powerful among the druids. And here was a thriving centre of industry and commerce. Here was a city that was still inimitably Aeduan, and yet had taken enough architecturally from the Romans who had patronised it for so long, that its buildings were strong, graceful and well-equipped.

And here was now the place where the future of the land and its tribes would be decided once again. Cavarinos had felt his conviction over this entire war shaken once or twice over the past few months, and had been close at times to throwing down his sword and riding off into the countryside to settle in peace somewhere. But seeing this gave him some hope that what they were doing was not only possible, but was in fact also worthwhile and justified.

He smiled easily as they rounded a curve to the right in the main street, rising still. Up to the right, between smaller rough houses, he could see an open space which he knew to be the nemeton of Bibracte’s druids and the field of assembly before it. Down to the left, he could see residential streets reaching right to the inner rampart.

The Aeduan noble who had been sent to escort the esteemed visitors into the city rattled off facts and figures, tales and anecdotes as they rode, gesturing to various places, and the rebel officers nodded as if they cared, trying to please their hosts.

Around another bend, this time to the left, and an open area on the lower slopes to the side of the road created a clearing around a pool formed by a spring that flowed from a carved spout in the hillside.

‘The sanctuary of the cold fountains,’ intoned their guide, throwing his arm out towards it. Cavarinos noted the place with more interest than the others, remembering how Litavicus had claimed his uncle to be the attendant here, and how the place had been intimately involved in the rise of Convictolitanis, who had finally delivered the Aedui to Vercingetorix.

His ears caught a discordant noise among the din and he concentrated, frowning. There it was again: a scream amid the cheers. His hand went to the shoulder of the king by his side, and the two men slowed their horses as the rest of the nobles and leaders with them paused in confusion.

‘What is it?’ Vercingetorix asked quietly.

‘Listen. Down there.’

Both men waited, though not for long before another scream rent the air. Though their guide was trying to urge them on, Vercingetorix waved him aside and the two Arverni stepped their horses down to the sanctuary clearing. Due to the slope of the hill and the spring’s source, something of a cliff some ten feet high had formed behind the pool, hiding from the road the scene that greeted them as they descended. By the time they reached the pool side, the two men could see clearly what was happening.

A man stripped to the waist raised a huge serrated sword and cast a prayer up to Taranis, and then took the blade to a figure tied to a T-shaped edifice before the cliff. The serrated edge sank deep into the man’s belly at the bottom of the rib-cage, and the half-naked man drew it back out agonisingly slowly, sawing up into the rib as he did so and bringing another unearthly scream, all the clearer up close and not lost amid the din. The crimson holes around the figure’s body told a tale of hours of torture. Moreover, the victim was not alone. A limp, ruined, bloody mess on a similar post next to him had been gone for a while, and two more waited, terrified, for his attention to turn to them. A man decked in noble clothes and gold- and bronzeware stood with his arms folded, watching.

‘What is this?’ demanded Cavarinos, jumping in ahead of his king. Behind them, the other chiefs and nobles of the army were joining them.

The man watching turned, and Cavarinos faintly recognised him. It took only a few heartbeats to click, and he frowned. ‘Viridomarus?’ One of the men who had given over the Aedui cavalry to Caesar! And yet here he was. Cavarinos turned to their guide, who had now descended with them.

‘What is this traitor doing here? He serves Caesar.’

‘Served Caesar,’ snapped the former traitor. ‘As did we all among the Aedui. But no more.’

Cavarinos frowned. He had to concede the point that during the Bibracte siege, the entire tribe still owed their oath to Rome. Besides, there was something more important preying on his mind right now.

‘What do you think you are doing?’

‘Killing hostages,’ shrugged Viridomarus casually.

‘What?’

‘The hostages Caesar had taken. The ones whose tribes have flocked to our banner have been sent back to their families. Those who hold to their oath with Rome are being executed as an extra incentive for their people to change their minds.’

‘That is barbaric and unacceptable,’ Cavarinos snapped. ‘How do you hope to attract faithful support with such cruelty?’

Behind him, Critognatos coughed. ‘Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. If they are not allies then they are enemies. Enemies deserve death. A Roman enemy might be killed with a sword blow in the field, but those of the tribes who support the enemy? Torture is their lot and I approve.’

Cavarinos turned to Vercingetorix. ‘This has to be stopped. Those men are the very people we fight for!’ His heart sank as he saw his king’s face.

‘No, Cavarinos. Your brother is correct. They have become the enemy. I might not have done things quite this way, but they are now the Aedui’s prisoners, and it is their choice how to proceed.’

‘We don’t serve the Aedui,’ Cavarinos growled. ‘They fight under our banner, not the other way round. It is in your power to stop this.’

‘Perhaps,’ the Arverni king conceded. ‘But it is not in my best interest to do so. Come. We have business above.’

Cavarinos stared at the rebel king’s back as the man wheeled his horse and climbed up to the road, his other men flocking close behind. Critognatos paused only long enough to throw a nasty look at him.

Is this what we’re fighting for? Cavarinos thought to himself as he followed on, a hollowness within him. His eyes burned into his brother’s back as they climbed.

* * * * *

‘You are the Arverni king,’ Viridomarus roared, rising to his feet amid the general din of the council chamber. ‘Just because your tribe feel the need to raise a king above themselves is no reason to foist the same despot upon all of us.’

Eporedirix reached up a restraining hand and tried to calm his friend as the chamber ebbed and flowed with admonitions and praises.

‘I do not wish to be king of the Aedui,’ Vercingetorix said quietly, and yet in a tone that cut through the noise. ‘I do not wish to rule your tribe. But in this critical moment in all our histories, it is critical that the tribes all work together as one nation. And with each tribe’s force here under independent command in the same manner as the Romans have their legions, we can only hope to make the most of that manoeuvrability and flexibility with one overall commander. I have prosecuted this war successfully thus far, despite shocks, setbacks…and treachery.’ He aimed this last at Viridomarus, whose face was livid purple. After all, the two recently-arrived Aedui may have struck an excellent blow at Noviodunum, but all who were at Gergovia could remember the Aedui cavalry arriving to serve Caesar because of this pair’s actions.

Viridomarus exploded in incoherent rage, his friend trying to keep him under control, though his anger was too great for his speech to be truly intelligible. Similarly, at the far side of the chamber, Critognatos rose angrily to his feet and started to jab the air in the direction of the livid Aeduan with an accusatory finger, yelling insults and imprecations, as Cavarinos sat back and watched his brother, shaking his head in distaste at this pointless bickering. It occurred to him that if Critognatos and Viridomarus were to command this army, the tribes might win, but what they would win would be a blood-soaked land, empty of people and light, unable to support life.

‘The Aedui should lead.’ The voice of Convictolitanis, the magistrate who ruled the Aedui, cut through the cacophony in much the same way as the Arverni king’s had. The bickering faded away.

‘Explain?’ Vergasillaunus requested quietly.

‘We are the greatest of the tribes. I do not want to belittle your achievements, which are magnificent, and without your boldness and effort, none of this would have happened. But the Aedui are the largest, strongest and richest tribe. We know the Romans better than any of you. Our capital — this great oppidum in which you now sit — is the greatest in the land and has a history of moots for the tribes. The Romans are now in our lands, which makes us the sensible commanders and gives us the most to lose. Surely the logic of all this cannot escape you. And above all, we are an elected rulership, who can be legally deposed and replaced. There is no danger of us deciding to remain your overlord when Caesar is gone, which is, I think, a large part of what worries the other tribes.’

‘Then let us ask them,’ threw in a new voice.

The Aeduan magistrate and the Arverni king, as well as most other eyes in the room, turned on Cavarinos, who shrugged.

‘The Aedui make a good case. I cannot deny it. And yet they are new to this war, which Vercingetorix is winning, having forced Caesar onto the defensive. We can argue about our validity all day, but this is a matter which affects all the tribes. The Romans call us “Gaul” as though we were one nation and, as my king has said: we need to be one nation in order to defeat Rome. We need to be Gaul. Well unless I am much mistaken there are nobles and ambassadors present from almost every tribe this side of the Rhenus and the Hispanic mountains. The Treveri are missing, for they are busy with German incursions, and the Remi and Lingones do not attend, for they remain tied to Caesar, along with those peoples on the southern borders who have been Roman so long they have forgotten who they were. But every other tribe deserving of mention is here. Let us moot as we have for Caesar in the past. Let the vote be cast for the leadership of the army.’

Silence fell as all regarded Cavarinos, and finally Vercingetorix and Convictolitanis shared a look and nodded. The Aeduan magistrate turned to his right hand man. ‘Fetch the voting sherds.’

The man nodded and opened a chest at the rear of the council chamber, drawing from it a large, heavy leather bag. Passing around the room as the buzz of ordinary conversation returned in place of the roar of anger, the Aeduan guard handed to each tribe’s leader two pieces of broken pot, one bearing the scratched and painted image of a boar and the other a rearing horse.

Another man set a large amphora into a recess in the floor at the room’s centre and cleared his throat. ‘Every tribe gets one vote. Cast your sherd into the pot appropriately: The horse for Aedui leadership, the boar for Arverni.’

Cavarinos looked across at Vergasillaunus as the sherds were passed to the king’s cousin, Vercingetorix being skipped as one of the proposed leaders. A lot rode on this moment. His eyes fell on the pot and he felt the tension in his body rise as the first man threw a vote in. He saw the Aedui horse flipping over and over into the darkness as the Mediomatrici put in their vote. Slowly, subtly, he reached down to his belt pouch and withdrew the wrapped bundle, unwinding the cloth and resting the curse of Ogmios openly upon his knee, in plain sight of all who approached the voting jar. He was rewarded by the sight of the Senone chief, who had been weighing the sherds in each hand, peering up at the curse and apparently coming to a decision, casting the boar into the pot.

A quarter of an hour was all it took and as the last, an ambassador for the distant Morini who faced Britannia across the water, cast his sherd, the two men who had carried out the voting duties lay out a wide, black blanket upon the ground. Carefully, they tipped the large amphora onto one side of it and began to lay out the pieces of pottery in two groups.

As the boar pile grew and grew, it became immediately apparent how the vote had gone. Across the room, lit by many lamps of Roman design, the Aeduan Magistrate gave a resigned sigh and nodded his sad acceptance of his lot. Critognatos leered at the Aedui noblemen and Viridomarus began to rise angrily once more, restrained only by the hands of Eporedirix.

There was no need to perform a count. It was plain from the relative sizes of the piles.

‘I will recognise no king over my people,’ snarled Viridomarus.

Vercingetorix rose and folded his arms. ‘The tribes have made their choice plain. But rest assured, Aedui friends, I have no intention of becoming king of your tribe. I accept the overlordship of all the peoples. The Romans cannot comprehend an alliance of tribes. They seek to make us one Gaul under their rule. Well one Gaul we shall be. Not beneath their rule, but atop their bodies.’

A bellow of approval rose from most throats in the hall, and the Arverni king noted Viridomarus’ sullen silence. He nodded as though coming to a decision.

‘The time has come to finish Caesar and to drive Rome from our lands once more. But we cannot finish there. Once Caesar is dead or in disgraced retreat to Rome, we must push back their border and recover what they call Narbonensis, freeing our brothers in the south, and the lands of the tribes beyond the Alpes, in the north of their own lands. This is the time to free all the tribes once more and come together as a great nation in defiance of Roman domination.’

Another roar greeted this, and even Viridomarus was nodding reluctantly.

‘The assembled tribes who have hitherto taken no part in the campaign will provide between them fifteen thousand horsemen, who should be able to be gathered and sent to the army swiftly. With them, we can hammer the legions of Caesar. I will take the cavalry from here, along with our own already assembled, and harry Caesar’s army, preventing him from foraging, while the rest of the army gathers and moves into position.’

He nodded to Convictolitanis. ‘The Aedui and Segusiavi will raise ten thousand infantry and eight hundred cavalry in the meantime. You may assign them Aedui generals as you see fit, and they will serve only under Aedui, to bring concord with those who disapprove of my overall command. You will take this army south, along with others you can raise from the allied tribes south of here. Crush those peoples at the borders who revel in their Romanness, and make the Romans fight for their own lands. As long as they are busy there, Caesar will find no succour from his own people.’

Viridomarus’ smile broadened. In a subtle move, the Arverni king had brought the Aedui to his side, and Cavarinos found himself heaving a sigh of relief as he rewrapped and pocketed the curse tablet. Finally, Caesar’s time in Gaul could be measured in weeks rather than years. The end was coming.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, he found himself picturing the Roman — Fronto — agreeing to a peaceful, merciful end to what could have been a bloodthirsty siege at Vellaunoduno, and watching his enemy walk away with their weapons and pride intact. And as that image soothed, so another mental picture burned: the Aeduan noble torturing and murdering their own peoples in a sacred place just for wavering in their voracity.

Still, when Caesar was beaten, which seemed likely any time now, such matters could be dealt with. Gaul, if it were to be a nation, must be created upon a foundation of respect and honour.

Respect, and honour.

Chapter 16

Near the Aeduan oppidum of Borvo

‘Now that is a welcome sight,’ Antonius sighed, and Fronto could not help but agree as the two men, along with several of the other officers, sat atop the slope and watched Labienus and his four legions stomping along the shallow valley towards them, passing below the deserted settlement. Every Aeduan town they had come across on their journey north towards Agedincum had been empty and stripped of food and goods, forcing them ever further to the east in search of food. The roving enemy horse bands had done their best to continue the ‘scorched earth’ tactics of the rebel king, but they had been too few to do a thorough job, and the Roman army had made it this far north without too much trouble, curving out east to find forage. A small party of cavalry had been sent ahead to Agedincum the moment they had crossed the river with orders to bring Labienus south and join up with the main force, the horsemen commanded to move fast but carefully, not attracting the attention of the roving enemy bands. They had been gone long enough to cause concern, but the arrival this morning of the Labienus’ forces put such doubts to rest. The native scouts among the messengers had once again proved their worth, managing to reunite the forces, despite the necessary change in course of Caesar’s army.

Now, despite the new Fifth and Sixth being in the south defending Narbonensis, the army once again numbered ten legions plus the large auxiliary contingent. There had been many murmurs among the officers concerning the trustworthiness of the native levies, given the array of tribes now turned against them. But Caesar had split the cavalry supplied by the now wavering or opposed tribes in amongst those from the peoples still allied and the regulars, and offered them high financial incentives to maintain their allegiance. Whether or not they did so when required remained to be seen, but with so few regular horse, the Roman general simply had to rely on the native levies.

‘What’s our estimated number now,’ Fronto asked quietly.

‘Assuming Labienus has suffered no disasters,’ Plancus replied, running his finger down the wax tablet list, ‘legionary contingent of between forty and forty-five thousand. Auxiliary infantry, archers, slingers and the like of around five thousand. Regular cavalry numbering perhaps two thousand. And native levies are difficult to assess, but estimated at around thirty thousand.’

‘Approximately eighty thousand men all in, then,’ Fronto nodded. ‘It’s a hell of an army. Will it be enough?’

The officers remained silent for a moment, each considering this question in the privacy of his own nervous mind. Scouts and local interrogations had confirmed throughout the three day march from Noviodunum that Vercingetorix and his army were on the move behind them. As might be expected from a people who were such natural horsemen, the enemy cavalry had moved ahead of their infantry and had apparently been disturbingly close on the heels of the Roman force, harrying a few lagging foragers as they went. But Caesar had pressed on as speedily as he could, knowing that the force at their heel outnumbered them and that only meeting up with Labienus and his legions could prevent disaster.

Indeed, for the past two days, the army had changed its marching order from the standard to a most unusual, defensive one. The baggage train had moved into the heart of the column, the legions arrayed in close order to either side, ready to protect, while the horse had been split into the three wings, roving around the column and changing position every few hours, ready for anything untoward, though with one always at the rear on watch. It was as prepared as they could hope to be.

‘What now? Do we turn to meet them with our full army?’

The general looked around at the army assembling from two directions. ‘No. They are still too many. We move on for Agedincum and let them come to us. Our march is dangerously slow, with the baggage train setting the pace, but we are far enough ahead that only their lead elements might catch us. This way, our forces are well rested, while the rebels are pushing and tiring themselves. With the blessing of Fortuna, perhaps they will suffer overconfidence after their earlier successes and commit to foolish action with only their vanguard. If not, we should reach Agedincum before their main army can strike us. It would give our men heart to do unto them as they did unto us at Gergovia. Either way, we win.’

The officers nodded their understanding. Even with eighty thousand men in the field — which was an estimate erring on the high side and they all knew it — the enemy numbered at least half that number again, and that was without any new recruits raised from Bibracte. To meet them in open battle without any other advantage would be foolhardy at best.

‘Let’s hope Fortuna is watching over us then,’ noted Fronto gripping the pendant beneath his tunic fervently.

‘And Mars and Minerva too,’ added Antonius with feeling.

* * * * *

‘And what are your estimates of their numbers?’ Vercingetorix asked the scout, the entire convocation of commanders hanging on the words attentively.

‘Some seventy thousand all in. Mostly legions or cavalry drawn from the tribes. I would say of the horse, twenty five thousand of our people and sundry Roman horsemen among them, split into three groups.’

‘And they appear to be making for Agedincum?’

The scout nodded, and Vercingetorix sighed and scrubbed his untamed hair, wild and matted from days in the wilds. ‘Then we are faced with a choice, my friends. Do we continue to bring up the whole army and face Caesar with our forces complete, which almost certainly means we will be forced to besiege them in their main garrison, or do we leave our infantry to catch up as soon as they can and make an attempt to stop him reaching Agedincum with our horse in the meantime? Opinions?’

A thoughtful silence filled the tent.

‘We have how many horse?’ Cavarinos asked.

‘With our new recruits, almost forty thousand.’

‘So enough to take their cavalry in a fair fight, but probably not enough to beat the legions.’

‘They do not need to beat the legions,’ Critognatos grunted. ‘Weren’t you listening? This is just to slow them. To stop them reaching their fortress while our army catches up.’

‘It’s still a very dangerous game to play,’ Cavarinos sighed. ‘Caesar has a habit of pulling surprising tricks on us. Just because our horse outnumber theirs does not make the result a foregone conclusion.’

‘Most of their horse are actually drawn from our own people,’ Litavicus noted. ‘I do not know how Caesar has persuaded them to stay in his army while their tribes pledge to us, but they will not fight their countrymen, I am certain. Once our forces have them pinned, rest assured that all his cavalry drawn from our tribes will turn to our banner.’

‘Do not be too sure of that either,’ Cavarinos murmured. ‘There will be many among them who have tasted the advantages of Rome and will hunger for more.’

‘What advantages?’ sneered Critognatos.

‘Ask the Aedui here, whose houses are built with new Roman techniques. Ask the Carnutes, who have moved in only a few decades from relative obscurity to power and authority in the land, all through gains from Roman trade. Ask the Senones, whose leaders are here fighting with us, but half of whom remain among the Roman garrisons, servicing their legions and living well from the profits. Do not be blinded by your rage, brother. We have done well to pull together the tribes we have, but do not believe even for one moment that there are none among us who cannot see advantages to both sides in this war.’

‘You dog’s pizzle,’ snapped Critognatos. ‘I knew you were a coward, but I never thought of you as a collaborator.’

With narrowed lips and eyes, Cavarinos stood. ‘Say that one more time, brother and you will be hunting the floor of this tent for your teeth.’

Vergasillaunus stepped into the centre of the room, blocking the brothers’ line of sight.

‘Alright, that’s enough! Cavarinos merely raises the point of caution, even if he labours the point. I believe he might be right, so caution should be our watchword, and even then this plan of action might be extremely dangerous for us. But have any of you thought of what it will be like if the Romans settle into Agedincum. We have little knowledge of sieges — it is not how we do battle. We can use our grapples and fill trenches, but is there a single man in this army who knows how to build their towers? Their stone-throwers and bolt-throwers? The Romans reach the walls of Agedincum and no amount of advantage in numbers will count for us.’

There was a murmur of assent at this, though not from Critognatos, who kept his eyes, filled apparently with hate, locked on his brother. Cavarinos simply shook his head gently, which seemed only to further aggravate the man.

‘My decision is made,’ the king announced finally, standing. ‘We cannot allow them to reach their base. If we do so, they can hold against us for months, until their senate decide to send help, and we know that Rome can raise many more legions yet. So we must move on Caesar to prevent that happening. All our cavalry elements will move out in the morning, split into three contingents to match the Roman forces. Two will take the column from the rear while the third, setting out earlier, will circle their army, which marches in a tighter formation than usual and is much more compact, and will launch a separate attack on the vanguard, halting them in their tracks. We fight as hard as we can, but look to our survival more than the enemy’s destruction. We hold them as long as we can. The rest of our army is a little over a day behind us. If we can halt the Romans for one day, we can stop them reaching Agedincum and then bring them to open battle. If we can do that, victory will be all-but certain.’

‘A day is a long time to fight Romans. They are adept at keeping reserves and resting their units throughout a fight. And our men are as likely to baulk at fighting their countrymen as the enemy are against us, so you might give the men an incentive,’ Cavarinos added, thoughtfully, his gaze still locked in battle with his brother. ‘Offer rewards for the riders of all the tribes for their valour and strength. Try to overcome any hesitation among our riders at attacking other tribesmen.’

A bear-like rumble rose from Critognatos’ throat. ‘Not the right sort of incentive, my king. You are their overlord and commander. You should not need to cajole and encourage. They should be desperate to win anyway, for their own honour. You should deny shelter and support to any man who does not ride through their lines, cutting them down.’

Cavarinos paused for a moment, ripping his gaze from his brother’s eyes, and was a little dismayed to realise from their expressions that Vercingetorix and his cousin were actually considering both options. He took a breath and coughed. ‘Levelling threats and setting harsh conditions upon our own warriors?’ He sighed. ‘Do as you see fit. I am finding the air in here stale and unpleasant.’

Rising, he ignored the noise at his back and pushed his way to the tent flap and out into the warm night air. Coming to a halt on the open grass, he heaved in a deep cleansing breath. The longer this war went on, the less straightforward it became and the less honour was to be found in it.

His gaze settled on the distant bulk of Borvo, rising above the surrounding lower hills. Somewhere near there the Roman forces were gathered, as prepared to face them as they ever would be. He wondered whether Fronto was having such ethical nightmares with his own people.

‘Good luck to you, Roman. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day for everyone, it seems.’

* * * * *

Varus first became aware of the enemy when one of the scouts who had been ranging half a mile ahead of the column came hurtling back towards them over the saddle, yelling warnings. He had covered only a tenth of the distance when a spear struck him in the back and his horse veered off to the side, the scout slouched low over the neck, spear bouncing along, still wedged in his ribs.

Then, announced by the blow, the enemy horse burst over the rise — thousands of them, charging into battle howling and bellowing, spears and swords at the ready. There were so many!

Before Varus could even give the order, Volcatius seemed to have had the same thought, bellowing commands, and the musician reached for his tuba to blow the order to charge. Standing and waiting for that mob to hit them would be no good. If the Roman force raced to meet them they would at least nullify the momentum of the charge. Before the horn sounded, Varus held aloft his sword.

‘A purse of gold to the man who makes the most kills!’

The tuba touched the man’s lips. Around them, the mostly-Gallic cavalry watched their countrymen charging at them.

‘And remember: all the gods hate an oathbreaker!’

The tuba blew. The horses began to run, holding to a rough semblance of formation at best. Behind, Varus could hear the Ninth legion calling the order for contra-equitas formation — a double-height wall of shields and bristling pila, in case the enemy routed Varus’ men and made it to the column. Beyond that, perhaps a mile back along the valley, he could hear other cavalry commands being sounded. An attack on more than one front, then.

Varus kicked his horse into greater speed, racing along the low slope towards the howling Gauls. To either side of him, Gauls equipped with Roman kit as well as their own charged, heads lowered forwards, spears braced, shields presented. At least, despite the likely uneven numbers, it seemed the native levies were still fighting with, rather than against, them.

His sword held forth and shield ready to take a spear, Varus thundered on amid his men, picking a likely target in the front line. The Gaul was armoured with a mail shirt of single thickness and a helmet that looked like some kind of mythical horned beast in bronze, three fairly bedraggled feathers jutting from the top.

The man had apparently chosen Varus in the same manner, and the spear he held adjusted slightly in an attempt to find Varus’ torso. The commander narrowed his eyes. That would be foolish. The man must know the Roman’s shield would reach a defensive position in time.

He realised what the man was doing just in time, hauling on the reins and forcing his horse to lurch to the right just as the man’s spear dropped and changed target. Had Varus not moved his horse ever so slightly, that leaf-shaped point would now be sinking into the beast’s chest and he would be thrown to the ground and trampled and churned beneath a thousand hooves. Nothing in this type of fight was quite so sure an agonising death as coming off your horse to be ridden over by both sides.

As the Gaul tried to bring his spear back up to attempt something useful, the two horses hit with a crash, along with all others along the line, and chaos ensued. The Gaul apparently decided that his spear was no longer viable and let it fall from his grasp into the press, reaching down to draw his sword. Varus gave him no time, leaning forward in the saddle and bringing his own blade down in an arc that smashed into the man’s upper arm, almost severing it. The Gaul lost control of his beast instantly, and as the horse shouldered this way and that, no longer held by the rein, trying to escape the press, Varus lifted his sword and brought it down at an angle, point first this time. The blade smashed into the stricken Gaul, shattering the rings of the shirt as it punched into flesh and muscle and killed the man swiftly.

Varus ripped his blade back out and looked around. The press of men around him was nightmarish, and made all the more so by the fact that the auxiliaries were almost indistinguishable from the enemy. He concentrated. All the native levies in his force had been issued with blue scarves to allow for easy identification following the debacle at Gergovia with the Aedui cavalry. Selecting a man without said apparel, he heaved his steed further into the press, scything down with his sword and catching the man’s shield, ripping a corner from it.

Around him men from both sides were cleaved and impaled, a fine spray of blood almost constantly filling the air along with the screaming and the sweating of both man and beast. As he delivered a second blow, crippling the shield and leaving the man defenceless, another blue-scarfed cavalryman drove a long Gallic blade into the Gaul. Varus looked about again, forced to jerk his reins to move aside as a particularly large horse now devoid of rider and with mad, rolling eyes, pushed its way through the panic, seeking freedom.

There was a scream, and the auxiliary who had just helped him suddenly disappeared from his own saddle accompanied by a jet of blood, leaving only another panicked horse. Varus had no time and no room to do anything about it, his own steed’s hooves stamping down on the fallen soldier, finishing him off.

The situation was already looking precarious. It was hard to get a true picture of the way things were going from within the press, but already, the vast majority of the figures he could see wore no scarf. Had his own men ripped theirs off and joined the enemy, or had they just been fought back?

A strange, gurgling tune reached his ears from somewhere behind them, and it took a moment for Varus to register the meaning of the noise as his sword took another enemy rider in the neck, wrenched back in a crimson fountain.

‘Oh, shit.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos pushed his steed forward through the press, trying to reach the Roman officer who had been seemingly untouchable so far, three of his victims fallen beneath the press. From the crest of the hill, the Arvernian noble had seen the almost choreographed way in which, at the sight of the enemy, the legions had formed into an anti-cavalry wall and surrounded the wagons, from which they could receive extra supplies of weapons or ammunition as required. The Roman horse — mostly drawn from the local tribes apparently — had wasted no time in countering the attack and, though the numbers seemed already to be swinging further and further into the rebels’ favour, the infantry would be a tough nut if they managed to break the horse. But then they didn’t really need to crack that nut. If they could destroy Caesar’s cavalry, they could keep the legions pinned down and unable to move until the rest of the army arrived.

If I can take their commander down, they’ll lose heart.

Cavarinos smashed a man in a blue scarf out of the way with his bronze shield boss and heaved on towards the officer in the press. He was closing on the man when an awful gargling noise rang out across the valley from twisted Germanic horns. With a sinking feeling, the Arvernian rose in his saddle to try and see over the heads of those in front.

Another force of horsemen was hurtling across the grass towards the fight. He couldn’t quite make out the details. There were quite a few of them, and kitted out as Roman cavalry, but the curses and oaths they yelled at the sky were in the Germanic tongue. His memory dredged up a tale Lucterius had told of the German cavalry who had saved Caesar’s army before the walls of Novioduno in the north. Savages. Head-takers. And trained and equipped by the Romans.

Ignoring this unpleasant revelation, he pushed on towards the officer, who was now also heaving his way forwards. Something about the look of urgency in the man’s face as he pushed deeper into the enemy suggested that his resolve was at least as much to be safe from the Germans behind him as to take the fight to the rebels ahead.

The officer was close now. Cavarinos was forced to delay his approach as a man with a good Gallic moustache and braid tried to remove his head with a long sword. Three parries — two with his shield and one with his blade — and the Arvernian nobleman managed to slam his sword into the man’s helmetless face, the blade driving in through the nasal cavity with agonising grating and shudders. By the time he ripped it back out with some difficulty, the Roman was even closer, but was being forced to parry a series of heavy blows from an Aeduan rebel.

And then they were face to face. The Roman was not a young man, with patches of grey visible beneath his helmet brim and colouring the five-day growth upon his chin. But his high cheekbones and ice blue eyes were noble and intelligent. The man nodded, barely perceptibly, as though acknowledging the nobility of his opponent, and raised a battered and dented shield, ready to take Cavarinos’ blow, his sword coming up ready to retaliate.

Cavarinos had not led this attack. That honour had gone to Eporedirix, who had insisted on his own command. He’d not directed the attack, but he would bring it to a close by finishing the enemy cavalry’s commander.

The Arvernian noble raised his own blade to strike.

Whatever it was that struck Cavarinos from the left felt like the hammer of the god Sucellos. It was heavy enough and swung with enough power that it actually turned his helmet slightly around his head, giving him only peripheral sight. Not that that really mattered, since the ringing of the blow on his helmet and the dent that drove bronze into his skull thoroughly scattered his wits, almost knocking him unconscious.

He felt himself falling from the saddle, bouncing between two rippling, sweating horses and to the churned mud beneath. His few conscious thoughts still threading together helpfully told him that he was a dead man. On the ground here, he stood precious little chance. He was past caring.

Blackness enveloped him

* * * * *

Cavarinos opened his eyes slowly, blinking with the pain that struck him in repeated, nauseating waves. His head was pounding, and his neck seemed stiff and unable to turn far to the left. One eye felt difficult to pry open further than a crack. But as he lay there, still groggy, he ran his hand across his chest and neck and down to his groin. Nothing seemed critical. Flexing his toes and fingers, he tried to move his limbs. Everything still seemed to work.

‘You’re alive, then,’ called a familiar voice. He blinked again, trying to focus. The figure of Eporedirix leaned against a heavy wicker fence, surrounded by a multitude of dejected tribes folk, many sporting visible wounds. He could see the tips of Roman spears beyond the fence. Captivity, then. Better than death, at least. Well… probably.

‘What happened?’ he managed through the thick saliva of sickness.

The Aeduan noble wandered over, through a large crowd of captives, all unarmed and disconsolate, and crouched next to him, nursing a bloody shoulder.

‘Disaster. Some of ours didn’t seem to have the heart to fight their countrymen, but those fighting for the Romans had no compunction about killing ours. And there was confusion. I think a lot of our men were killing each other, mistaking them for the enemy. Things were getting difficult even before the Germans hit us. They were animals, Cavarinos. I saw one of them take a bite out of my signaller’s neck. I kid you not. He just leaned in, sank his teeth into the man and tore out half of his neck. It was sickening.’

‘So we lost.’

‘That’s why we’re here.’

‘And the other attacks?’

‘Fared no better than us. They were holding their own by the looks of it, but once those of us at the front had broken under the German onslaught, the ones at the rear stood no chance. This is just one prison. I saw them building four this morning, and from the hammering sounds throughout the day, there’s been more. If they’re all the same size, I’d say they took more than two thousand of us prisoner. One of the Romans said the prisons are just to hold us while they process us, whatever that means. And then there’s the dead, of course. So many dead. While we waited to be herded in here, I saw the dead being gathered in huge heaps. Not many will have made it back, I fear. Last I saw of the survivors as my captor smacked me about with his spear shaft, they were racing for the river with Caesar’s hounds snapping at their heels.’

‘It was always a risky attack,’ Cavarinos sighed, as there was a rattle and a clunk and the gate swung wide. A centurion stepped in. ‘Time to be counted, identified and allocated, you lot. Those of you who speak Latin need to translate for the rest. Form a line and walk slowly across to the desk of the clerk, give your name, tribe, and anything you can think of that might be relevant. And remember, the legionaries on either side of you are alert and ready, should any of you get any clever ideas. Now come on.’

As the dejected captives began to form a line and move slowly from the stockade, Eporedirix reached down with his uninjured arm and helped the stiff Cavarinos to his feet. A thought struck the Arvernian as he wobbled slightly, and his gaze dropped to his waist and he breathed a sigh of relief. The familiar weight of his pouch was still there.

‘If you’re after your sword, they took them all.’

The Arvernian stretched and tried to ease his neck around as the line moved slowly out. The nausea was retreating fast, leaving a dull ache on the left side of his head and around his eye where the blow had apparently landed. As he passed through the open gate and into the Roman camp, seething with men, he noted the line ahead. The men were being interrogated as to their name and tribe quite tersely and quickly shuffled off into one of two lines. One was approaching a small enclosure, where the cries of pain and the rising waves of smoke suggested branding was taking place. The other disappeared from sight behind a line of expressionless legionaries. With typical Roman efficiency, the line was moving quickly.

His roving gaze took in the camp as he shuffled forwards. It was enormous, and something about the treelines and the slope towards a nearby rising hill was startlingly familiar. Everywhere he could see legionaries going about their business, and here and there centurions directing activity. This was it, then. The Romans had stopped running. They had demolished the rebels’ cavalry, and felt they now had the edge, so they had halted their march and built a camp. They did not need to make for Agedincum any more. And if Vercingetorix had any sense, with no cavalry element, he was looking for somewhere to hole up and defend until replacement forces arrived to bolster his.

A small party of officers strolled on past, all gleaming cuirasses and red linen. Cavarinos felt his heart jump as he recognised the legate of the Tenth legion among them, and he quickly averted his eyes and lowered his face. More steps. And more. Closer to the table, and likely to a slave brand.

In front of him, Eporedirix gave his name and tribe, chin held high and proud as he clutched his bloody shoulder still. The legionary was about to point him towards the branding tent, but the optio with a wax tablet overseeing the operation tapped him on the shoulder. ‘He’s one of the exceptions.’ The man looked Eporedirix up and down. ‘You speak Latin?’

‘I do.’

‘Step over there.’ The optio pointed to a small group of nobles from various tribes who were being carefully watched over by more than a dozen legionaries as they were roped at their wrists and stripped of any remaining decoration. Eporedirix did as he was bid, and suddenly Cavarinos found himself at the desk.

‘Name and tribe.’

‘Cavarinos of the Arverni.’

The optio checked down his list.

‘He’s one too. Over there,’ he added pointing at the small group.

‘Hang on, optio,’ called a voice. Cavarinos kept his head down, even when fingers curled around his shoulder and turned him slowly.

‘It is you.’

He looked up into Fronto’s gaze. ‘You took a bad blow,’ the Roman noted, gesturing to his face. ‘A lot of purple there.’ He turned to the optio. ‘Strike this one from your list. I’ll interrogate him myself.’

‘Is this a good idea?’ asked one of the other officers who had been with Fronto.

‘Probably not. Most of mine aren’t. But sometimes you’ve got to go with your gut, Priscus.’

With a gesture of the hand, Fronto invited Cavarinos away from the scene of such defeat and dejection. The one called Priscus wandered along with them and after a few moments’ walk, they reached a horse corral, where the two officers stopped. Cavarinos straightened with difficulty.

‘Your king was foolhardy,’ Priscus said quietly. ‘He should have waited.’

Cavarinos shrugged, and winced at the pain in his neck. ‘Sometimes the best-looking ideas turn out to be the worst. Retrospective wisdom is a useless gift.’

‘Can’t argue with that.’ Fronto gestured to the sun hanging low in the west, about to descend behind the hills. ‘Day’s just about over. Not a good day for your king, I’d say. Not a wonderful one for us, truth be told. Do you drink wine, or won’t you touch Roman muck?’

Cavarinos gave a faint chuckle. ‘I was brought up on Roman wine.’

Fronto turned to the other officer. ‘Gnaeus? I’ll see you in my tent in an hour or so. I suspect Antonius is already there, desperate to celebrate with a jar or two.’

Priscus nodded reluctantly. ‘He’s the enemy, Fronto. Don’t forget that. Don’t do anything stupid.’

Fronto gave an easy laugh. ‘Just make sure there’s still wine when I get there. I have limited supplies and I know what Antonius is like when he gets started.’

As Priscus strode off, Fronto reached down to his waist and unfastened a leather wineskin, the straps wound round the belt. ‘Here’ he proffered. Cavarinos took it with a shrug and unstoppered it, taking a sip. ‘Tart,’ he noted.

‘Same to you.’

‘What do you plan to do with me?’

Fronto sighed. ‘I’m not sure yet. I have a feeling that if we’d done away with you months ago, half of the crap we’ve faced wouldn’t have happened at all. For some reason every time something momentous happens, I look up and there’s you, wandering around, sometimes incognito.’

‘I keep myself busy.’

Cavarinos paused, his eyes slipping past the horse corral. Down beyond it the ground fell away to wild grass, which extended as far as the loop of a river, a line of beech trees marching across the green. Perhaps halfway between the Roman rampart — which was still being raised — and the river, stood a circular edifice of timber and tile. He smiled.

‘Thought the ground was familiar. I know this place.’

‘Some druid site, we think. It was deserted when we arrived, but it has fresh water on hand and space for a large camp.’

‘It’s a place of healing waters,’ Cavarinos replied. ‘Sacred to many.’

‘You could use them on your eye, I’d say. Hell, I could use it on my knee.’ The Roman pursed his lips, retrieved his wine sack and took a pull on it. ‘Come on.’

Cavarinos, frowning, fell in behind him as the legate strode around the corral enclosure and down to the ramparts. Several legionary work parties were busy there, and the optio in charge saluted at the sight of a senior officer, barking the command for his men to stand to.

‘Don’t disturb them,’ he replied. ‘Let them get on with it. My friend and I are heading to the spring down there.’ The optio gave him a worried look, and Fronto smiled. ‘It’s about three hundred paces from the walls. If I’m gone more than half an hour you can send out a search party. Besides, I have this,’ Fronto added, patting the embossed orichalcum hilt of his beautiful sword. The optio saluted, still looking rather uncertain and Fronto invited Cavarinos over the rampart. The two men strolled down the slope towards the building. Surrounding an open circular courtyard, the structure was of a single story — a circular enclosing wall pierced by a single high doorway with a timber pediment carved into odd shapes.

‘Is there any way we can still stop this?’ Cavarinos asked suddenly as they approached the building.

‘What?’

‘This whole thing. We both know what’s coming. There’s been a lot of posturing and a lot of testing and pushing and shoving. But the end’s coming now, and coming soon. There’s a battle approaching that’s going to feed the crows for generations.’

‘It would appear that way,’ Fronto conceded quietly.

‘And is there a way we can stop it?’

Fronto paused by the entrance and gestured for the Arvernian to enter first. Cavarinos did so, easily, and the two men entered the enclosure. The gravelled circle was surrounded by a paved walkway, covered by a portico held up by regular timber posts. At the centre, a square stone basin sat flush with the ground.

‘There’s no stopping what’s coming. You know that. Unless you can persuade your king to accept Caesar’s dominion, which I consider unlikely.’

Cavarinos nodded and began to stroll around the circular walkway. ‘He will not do that. And on a basic level, I cannot see why he should. These are our lands back for a hundred generations and more. Why should he accept that we should be ruled by Rome?’

‘Because Roman dominion is better than extinction,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘Ask the Carthaginians about that.’

Cavarinos stopped and turned on Fronto.

‘Why can’t you just leave us alone? Go back to your republic and send ambassadors for peace instead.’

‘Because we’ve invested too much now. Because Caesar needs this victory to avoid a catastrophic fall in Rome. Because some of the tribes still want our allegiance. To secure the borders of our province. And because hundreds of years ago, one of your own sacked Rome. Rome has a very long memory, Cavarinos, and she holds grudges. Gaul has been a thorn in the republic’s side for a long time. And even if you beat Caesar this time, he will come back with more men. And more men. Again and again and again until he wins. We Romans are not the type to give up easily. And even if Caesar dies, someone else will take up his sword. Gods-forbid that it be Pompey. At least Caesar tries to work with your tribes and attempts to keep allies. Pompey would conquer or burn in toto.’

‘So Rome will never let us live in peace?’

‘Says a man whose people live in a perpetual state of war. The only time you’re not fighting each other is when you’re fighting us or the Germans!’

Cavarinos laughed for a moment, and then began to walk again. ‘My people? The Arverni have worked with Rome on the borders of Narbonensis for decades. We were peaceful and content for a while. Rome and what you call Gaul are closer to one another than you might think, though, Fronto. Some of your peers consider us barbaroi, but look at how quick we are to adapt to what you offer, and vice versa. Our buildings are taking on Roman aspects. Our coins look like yours. Many of our tribes speak Latin for the ease of trade. And you wear armour and helmets no longer modelled on your Greek forebears, but based on our designs. For generations now, some of our tribes have adopted an almost republican system of magistrates. We are slowly becoming one Gaul, rather than scattered tribes. Many of my own cannot see that yet, and they think this is the best we can be. But whatever they think, we are centralising. And this war has accelerated the process… put Vercingetorix in a position reminiscent of your consuls. When the process is finally complete — if it is allowed to happen — we will truly be a culture to be reckoned with. We would be a worthy ally, such as your friends the Aegyptians or the Armenians, but with more in common. Do you see the potential there?’

Fronto nodded. ‘Of course I do. I have become rather used to your land and its people over the past few years. In fact my father-in-law and I both own villas in the hills above Massilia, in land that’s as much Gaulish as it is Greek or Roman. It would be excellent to see the whole place at peace. But the fact remains that Caesar, and even Rome itself, will not rest now until Gaul is beneath our rule. It’s a matter of pride stretching back centuries.’

‘And my king will not bow to Caesar. We are on the verge of something magnificent, and he can see it, even if he doesn’t speak of it to the others. He will not give up our future easily. You will have to tear it from him. And so we are at an impasse.’

‘It would seem so.’

Finally, Cavarinos turned from the ambulatory and strode across to the sacred well at the centre. Fronto followed him and looked into the stone basin. The water was deep and in the gloom of the setting sun he could not see the bottom. ‘Healing, eh?’

Cavarinos nodded and crouched, dipping his hand in and bathing his bruised face with it. Fronto shrugged and knelt next to him. ‘What the hell?’ His finger shot out, pointing at the jets and streams of bubbles filtering up through the water.

‘Part of its value. That’s what makes it special.’

‘Special, my arse,’ Fronto said leaning back away from the water. ‘I lived near Hades’ Gate at Puteoli. When stuff bubbles out of the ground, you’re wise to not touch it. I’ve seen men get their legs burned black by it.’

‘Not this. Try it.’ To prove his point, Cavarinos dipped his hand in again and scooped more water to his face. Gingerly, Fronto began to remove his boot and almost fell backwards as Cavarinos, quick as lightning, grasped the hilt of the glorious sword at his side and pulled it free. Fronto rolled away and came up quickly as Cavarinos rose, the point of the beautiful, peerless blade aimed at Fronto’s chest. The Gaul hefted the weapon for a moment, turning it over, the point staying in place.

‘This is very fine workmanship.’

‘You’ll not find me easy,’ Fronto muttered, bracing himself, suddenly grateful for Masgava’s lessons. The big Numidian would be livid that Fronto had come down here with the enemy and hadn’t even mentioned it to his singulares. Palmatus would likely hit him for it.

‘I daresay. I’ve formed an opinion of you these past few months, Fronto of the Tenth.’

Cavarinos suddenly jabbed with the sword and Fronto danced back, but the blow had been pulled and came nowhere near.

With an easy chuckle, Cavarinos flipped the sword so that he was holding the point and offered the hilt to Fronto.

‘You’re too trusting, my friend. Had I wished it, I could have left you here holding in your belly ropes.’

‘I’m usually a good judge of character,’ Fronto snapped peevishly as he grabbed the hilt and took his sword back, jamming it firmly down into the scabbard.

‘I urge you to sample the water on your bad knee anyway, Fronto.’

‘Perhaps later.’ Reaching down he collected the wine sack from the grass where he’d been sitting and took a swig, handing it over. Cavarinos followed suit.

‘So that’s it?’

‘That,’ Fronto nodded, ‘is it. Your king is about to either flee to a fortress, in which case we’ll seal him in and end it, or he’ll try and take us in the morning, in which case he’ll lose. Without his cavalry he’s lost his edge.’

‘There are plenty more of our allies to come yet.’

‘But they’re not here now,’ sighed Fronto. ‘You could join us, you know? I have need of clever men, and I get the feeling that describes you quite well.’

‘Turn my back on my own people and serve Rome?’

‘Plenty of others have.’

Cavarinos shook his head. ‘My honour sells dearer than that, I’m afraid. Not that the offer doesn’t tempt me, mind.’

‘But you don’t want this any more than I.’

‘And yet you’re still here too, Fronto. A man of your rank doesn’t need to be — I can recognise a patrician when I see one. Why don’t you walk away?’

‘Something about honour I guess,’ Fronto smiled wearily. ‘It’s my last season. This winter I hang my blade on the wall and leave the military for good. I’m a father now and I’d like my boys to grow up with me around.’

Cavarinos laughed. ‘You might plan that, but I can see the warrior in your eyes, Fronto. You can no more settle down like that than you can walk away from this war.’

‘No. This is my last fight. And it’ll end with Gaul peaceful, so that I can settle in Massilia and not have to worry about the lands a few miles from my door erupting in rebellion.’

‘I hope you get to retire peacefully, Fronto, though I doubt it will come to pass. And I cannot hope that it comes about through the end of our culture.’ He straightened. ‘Now, to business. Am I destined for a slave brand, or to be traded for Roman captives when the time comes?’

Fronto laughed, though with no humour. ‘I don’t think so. I’m thinking that when this entire mess comes to an end one way or another, the world will need men like you and I to try and bring it back into order. And your name’s been struck from the captive list, remember?’

Cavarinos gave him an appraising look. ‘If you free me, you know I will continue to fight against you. Remember what your friend Priscus advised.’

‘Then let’s pray to our gods that we don’t meet in the fight that’s coming, eh?’

Cavarinos chuckled. ‘You pray for both of us. The gods and I don’t get on all that well.’

‘Shame. You might need their help soon. Perhaps if you’d paid a little more devotion before now, you wouldn’t be here now.’

‘And I wouldn’t have had the chance to sample your fine vinegar and have this little chat.’

‘Seriously, Cavarinos. Keep yourself safe. When this is over and we’re working through the captives and the dead, I want to see you being marked off the former list, not the latter.’

‘Luck is luck, Fronto. Not the will of the gods. Good or bad, it comes when you wake and leaves when you sleep.’

On a whim, Fronto reached into his tunic and pulled out his small bronze figurine of Fortuna, struggling to remove the leather thong from his neck. The broken, legless ivory Nemesis looked lonely against his skin, and he resolved to replace them the next time he found a merchant with a supply or an artisan who could do them justice. Silently, he held the bronze figure in the palm of his hand and offered it to Cavarinos.

‘What is this?’

‘Fortuna. Our goddess of luck, and my patron goddess. I feel you might need her more than I in the coming days. If we both get through this, you can always give me it back sometime, but take it and wear it for now.’

Cavarinos hesitated, but finally reached out and took the pendant. ‘Try not to get speared in her absence,’ he smiled weakly.

‘I have to get back to my tent before Antonius has drunk all my wine. And shortly it’ll be truly dark and it’ll be a bugger climbing back to camp. Get going and don’t look back. There will be scouts out there, so be careful.’

Cavarinos nodded and thrust out his hand. Fronto took and gripped it. ‘Be safe.’

‘You too.’

The Roman officer stood and watched as the Gaul slipped out of the doorway and into the night, and then sighed, straightened, and began to stroll back to camp. This had been the third time he’d had Cavarinos of the Arverni in his grip — after Vellaunoduno and Decetio — and the third time he’d let him go. He hoped the habit he’d formed would not come back to bite him, but didn’t think so. Cavarinos might continue to fight with his king, but men whose ultimate goal was peaceful coexistence were men who should be encouraged, whatever side they fought upon.

His hand went up to the damaged figure of Nemesis at his throat. He hoped Fortuna wouldn’t take it personally that he’d given her away. After all, Cavarinos might be in desperate need of luck, but Fronto had only survived on her whim a number of times now.

He turned as he ascended toward the rampart, and his gaze just about picked out a shadowy figure moving among the trees on the far side of the river.

‘Good luck.’

* * * * *

‘You should get yourself dried out first,’ Vergasillaunus suggested, looking the drenched, shivering nobleman up and down. ‘Less than a thousand cavalry made it back, you know. Their pickets must be half-blind for you to slip past them. You were lucky to escape alive.’

Luck. Yes, that was it. Cavarinos’ hand went up to touch his chest, feeling the shape of Fortuna beneath his wool tunic.

‘I will find dry clothes shortly. Caesar has stopped running for Agedincum, my king. His army is encamped not five miles from here, at the old spring temple near Abello. He is convinced that he can beat you in battle in the open field now that you have no cavalry support, at least according to one of the Romans I overheard. I suspect he is waiting until the morning to see what you do before he finalises his plans.’

Vercingetorix nodded. ‘He is astute. And almost certainly correct. Without our cavalry, there is too great a risk of failure if we confront him. Once again, ill luck strips away our advantage. We cannot meet him in the field, and it will take too long for reserves to reach us. We must make for a place of safety while we await reinforcements.’

Cavarinos pursed his lips. ‘Abello is too close to them. Caesar would stop us before we reached the hill. Decetio is too far back south, and again, the journey would take us perilously close to Caesar’s army.’ He paused with a frown. ‘What about Alesia?’

The king nodded appreciatively. ‘The Mandubii owe their allegiance to us, and Alesia is almost as defensive as Gergovia. Perhaps, even without the cavalry, we can repeat our earlier success there. And once the reserves turn up, we’ll trap Caesar between an anvil and a hammer. A good choice. If we push ourselves as soon as the sun is up, we can be behind its ramparts by sunset.’

‘The Romans will know where we’ve gone,’ Vergasillaunus noted. ‘Their scouts are all over the countryside.’

‘That matters not. Alesia is more or less impregnable. We will make a stand there and wait for the reserves.’

Cavarinos nodded, shuddering in his cold wet clothes.

The capital of the Mandubii, then. That was where the big fight of which Fronto and he had spoken would take place.

Alesia…

PART THREE: ENDGAME

Chapter 17

Alesia. Summer 52BC.

Vercingetorix stood tall on the bluff at the western end of Alesia’s plateau, both hands resting casually on the pommel of the long sword at his side, his intelligent, contemplative brow furrowed as he looked down over the aptly-name plain of mud below, his long hair whipping in the evening breeze.

Behind him the sounds of oppidum life went on. Alesia was perhaps a third as large again as Gergovia. Its slopes may not be as steep and unassailable, and its walls not quite as sturdy, but it made a more than adequate camp for the army of free tribes. Despite being so much larger than the Arvernian capital, Alesia supported less than half that population, leaving acres of space for the army that had arrived a few hours ago, even if much of that was at the eastern end and outside the walls. Even now the bulk of the force was still setting up, selecting where to site their tribes and assigning sections of rampart to watch over. Many of the nobles, including the king’s cousin, were busy working with the Mandubian elders of the city, trying to settle in without too much inconvenience to the population. But Cavarinos stood here with Vercingetorix, Lucterius, and the Mandubian chieftain, looking out over the plain, as much to be away from his brother as any other reason.

The local chief looked distinctly uncomfortable as he surveyed the scene before them, and who could blame him. He had not quibbled at the huge army that had arrived on his doorstep and asked that they be given space and food until further notice, warned that the might of Rome would be on his doorstep in a matter of hours. He had not complained at all. But the private silent panic supposedly locked in the darkness of his mind emanated from him like a carnyx call to retreat. Cavarinos could not help but sympathise with the man.

Below them, on the wide plain bisected by a narrow and shallow river, that Roman might was assembling, having appeared on the scene mere hours behind their quarry. Their baggage was yet to arrive, Caesar having clearly considered the wagons safe with the enemy in front of them, and the army had pushed on, harrying the rearmost of the tribes as they ran for the safety of this high mountain.

Legions were moving even now around Alesia’s bulk, heading for the heights of the other hills that surrounded it, where they could watch for every movement and maintain a siege if required.

‘They are sealing us in well,’ Cavarinos noted.

‘They might think so. They do not anticipate our reinforcements, I believe.’

‘We need to learn from the Romans,’ Cavarinos mused, tapping his chin. ‘They like their boundaries. They work by them. If our army is largely encamped at the eastern extremity beneath the walls, they are in danger. The Romans will consider them exposed. All we need do is build a stone wall like the one we had below Gergovia, and maybe a ditch, and the Romans won’t even think of attacking. And it’s a much shorter rampart to build than the last one was.’

The king nodded slowly. ‘Agreed. See to it, Cavarinos.’ He turned with a genuinely warm smile. ‘I value your perceptive observations on the enemy. I am pleased you returned to us safe.’

‘So am I. What do we do about the reinforcements?’

‘Ah, that.’

‘Yes.’

The king reached up and stroked his moustaches, watching the legions moving like some sort of machine down below. ‘They will attempt to seal us in completely. That is their modus operandi. They did so at Vellaunoduno and with the aid of the swamps at Avaricon much the same. They did not try at Gergovia — I believe because the sheer scale of the place put them off — and there they failed, so they will not make that mistake again. Watch for them constructing some sort of circuit.’

Cavarinos frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ He looked around at the landscape he could see in the golden light of the sinking sun. ‘That would have to be an enormous rampart… many miles long.’

‘Caesar has both the men and the patience. It will happen. If we are to do anything, it must be done before those defences go up. It must be done before the dawn.’

Cavarinos sighed. ‘What do you wish of me?’ Subterfuge and distant missions seemed to be his lot in life this year. Somewhere deep in his soul, though — where he would not admit to its existence — a small part of him cheered that he would not be forced to face Fronto in battle. The king’s words ripped that away in a heartbeat.

‘Nothing, my friend. Your place is here with us. You are a constant source of wise recommendations, and the way this war currently wavers I value that input.’ He looked across at the fourth member of their group. ‘Lucterius?’

The Cadurci chieftain turned, currently enjoying a satisfying moment in the late sun. His year had started with numerous failures, but his brave and dangerous cavalry action at Gergovia had finally restored his reputation. Indeed, of the dreadful cavalry attack on Caesar’s army yesterday, only Lucterius had managed to pull together a unit of survivors and get them across the river and back to the army. The rest of the survivors had fled in braces and rare dozens and had filtered back to camp over the following hours.

‘My king?’

Vercingetorix smiled at him. The Arvernian leader was not the king of the Cadurci, of course, but the honorific was heartfelt and he knew it. ‘Only you and the cavalry stand a chance of getting past the assembled legions fast enough to move to free ground and escape their clutches.’

‘You would ask me to leave, my king?’

‘For the good of the army, to seek aid’ Vercingetorix explained. Cavarinos nodded sagely, as aware as the others of the unspoken bonus there: that the loss of so many human and equine mouths in Alesia would ease the food issues somewhat.

‘You will need every good warrior here,’ Lucterius argued. ‘My place is at your side. Send someone else.’

The king shook his head. ‘No. It must be someone in whom I have the utmost trust, and who I know is bright enough and brave enough to get past the Romans and stay free. Take the surviving cavalry — both yours and those other tribes who remain — out of Alesia during the hours of darkness.’

‘And if we break past the Romans, what do you require of me?’ Lucterius asked, sagging slightly.

‘Before you leave, I want you to visit each of the chieftains, kings or higher nobles leading the forces of this army and acquire a seal or other token that confirms that you speak for them. Once you have those, take the horsemen and ride for Bibracte with all haste. With Roman armies in the field and the future of the tribes still at risk, I feel certain that the assembly of chieftains will still be present there. Speak to the assembly and press for war on the grandest scale. Do not hold back. Make certain they are clear on what is required to win this fight and on what is at stake here. We can win now, but only if the tribes decide to fight Rome as a nation. It is time to put aside tribal politics and devote all our power to destroying Caesar.’

The Cadurci leader frowned. ‘Do you think the chiefs here will agree to me speaking for them?’

‘You are respected, Lucterius. And each of those chiefs is now trapped here with us. They know first-hand what is at stake.’

Lucterius nodded and Vercingetorix peered down at the manoeuvring Romans again.

‘Every man who can fight.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We need every man old enough to carry a blade without the tip dropping. We want horse. We want swordsmen. We want archers. We want spear-bearers. Even the greybeards. Every man the tribes can provide. And if they do this, I will give them victory over Rome. If they do not, then we cannot fight our way out of Alesia and more than eighty thousand chosen men of the tribes will be sacrificed on Caesar’s altar.’

‘It will take time to gather the men of whom you speak.’

The Arvernian king nodded. ‘Even though the Mandubii are still in residence, with no cavalry to maintain we have grain for perhaps thirty days. If we agree to suffer hardship, that can be dragged out. Be quick, though, and urge the assembly to be quick.’

Lucterius nodded, his face serious. ‘I will bring you your army, my king.’

The Cadurci chieftain turned and strode off into the oppidum proper, hunting those leaders whose tokens he would need to convince their countrymen, and the king turned to the other two with him. ‘Thank you for your understanding and your hospitality, my friend,’ he addressed the Mandubian chieftain. ‘I would ask that you and my esteemed commander here,’ a gesture made to Cavarinos, ‘divide up the cattle and grain stored in Alesia and distribute it as fairly as possible between the tribes encamped here and the Mandubii population. Cavarinos is a good man. He will not attempt to feed our army at the expense of your people. But if we are to win here and to free our land of the nailed Roman boot, we must pull together as far as possible.’

Almost as an afterthought, he frowned and addressed the local before the two left. ‘I believe we have near two thousand Mandubii among our forces. I would ask that you follow the plan I have set for all the tribes. Any man old enough to lift a sword and young enough to still run would be valued among our army.’

The chieftain bowed his head, and Cavarinos could feel the nerves twanging in the man as he walked alongside away from the western bluff.

Finally alone, Vercingetorix looked down at the forces once more. Several legions had moved off along the valleys to either side of Alesia, taking up position on the hills facing it, but the bulk of the force remained on that wide plain before him. He fancied he could almost discern a white horse and a red cloak moving about among the rank and file, and he smiled coldly.

‘Your time has come, Gaius Julius Caesar, child of Venus and Proconsul of Rome. You came to our land hunting fractured tribes, but in your time here, you have turned us into one Gaul, strong and proud like the boar we revere. And this boar has razor tusks.’

* * * * *

Fronto stood on the low rampart of the large westernmost camp, which rose upon the slopes of a hill known among the scouts as Mons Rea — the mountain of guilt. The name did not sit well with him as a site for such a major base of operations, but Caesar had been set in his design. The general would command the Tenth and Eleventh in a camp on the apex of the southern ‘mountain of thegods’ gate’ hill as well as a second camp further round that same range, housing the Eighth and Thirteenth. Labienus commanded a third camp on the north-eastern hill, known as ‘the maw’, with the First and Seventh in residence. In the shallow valley to the north, a smaller camp would house the Ninth and Fourteenth under Trebonius. Here in the Mons Rea camp, the Twelfth and Fifteenth would guard the plain, with Antonius in command of both that and Varus’ three cavalry camps spread across the wide plain before Alesia. The plan neatly encircled the Mandubian city in a ring of iron and flesh.

Each officer and unit had its place and its hierarchy, though this evening Caesar was present at the site of the Mons Rea camp, overseeing the first phases of the work. Despite granting him a good view across the plain, this camp still looked up at the towering bulk of Alesia, which resembled an upturned boat with its prow pointing at the concentration of Roman forces on the plain. Caesar moved among the men constructing the camp, encouraging and providing heart, even sharing a crass joke here and there with the legionaries as though such talk came naturally.

Antonius produced his ever-present wineskin from the folds of his cloak as the two men moved towards the fire that burned just inside the camp perimeter, holding back the increasing gloom and providing heat against the chill breeze that seemed to come from nowhere to whip across the plain. Varus huddled by the fire, looking bored.

Masgava and Palmatus hovered nearby. Since that damned Priscus had let slip to them that Fronto had wandered off out of camp in the close company of one of the enemy, the singulares had never let him out of their sight and he was beginning to get sick of the admonishment and disapproval that flowed from the men in waves and the way they clung to him like a bad smell. He’d even found it near impossible to crap, with the sound of his bodyguard waiting patiently beyond the leather wall.

‘I’ve never seen a system like it,’ Antonius said between pulls on his drink.

‘It’s certainly one of the most impressive engineering plans I’ve heard come out of that command tent,’ Fronto agreed. ‘On a par with the Avaricon ramp, at least.’

Varus, his cavalry divided between the quarters on the plain and guarding the construction work, was left at something of a loose end and looked up from the warm glow of the fire. ‘Eleven miles of rampart and ditch. Eleven miles! That’s more than a mile for each legion.’

‘Don’t forget the palisade, the towers and the camps,’ Antonius reminded him. ‘It’s days of work at least. Twenty three redoubts, he wants, connecting the main camps.’

‘Caesar is clearly serious about pinning the rebels down this time,’ Fronto noted, warming his hands and gratefully accepting a drink from Antonius. ‘Vercingetorix has been too mobile and troublesome. Now the general has him trapped, he’s not going to give him the chance to slip away and run again.’

‘More than that,’ Antonius mused, ‘I think he’s still smarting from the beating we took at Gergovia. He’ll not let it happen again and he won’t leave this place until he has redeemed both himself and all of us.’ He looked down into the flames. ‘Truth be told, with the ongoing situation in Rome, he cannot afford to. Word of Gergovia has probably already filtered back to the city. I know the lines of communication are cut, but bad news spreads faster than you’d believe and can jump breaks in communication. Rome’s confidence in him will be shaken. He can put that right now, but if he lets the rebel slip away again or win one more fight, it might well be the end of his political career. Pompey will use the failure to destroy him. A lot rides on this fight.’

Varus shook his head. ‘I remember the general saying at Gergovia that we couldn’t afford the time it would take to lay full siege to the place. It would require a vast ramp that would take many months. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this place doesn’t look a whole lot different to me.’

‘There’s one major difference, though,’ Fronto said, passing the wine over to the cavalry commander. ‘Vercingetorix had always allowed for his capital to be a fall-back position, I think. It was extremely well supplied in preparation. The rebel army could have lived a year or more there without worrying unduly, and still had forage opportunities and water. Alesia is not his place, though. Indeed, this city was a peaceful, out-of-the-way town, a long way from the war. They cannot have expected to be besieged, and so there is little likelihood that they have anything more than their own declining granaries for supplies. And now he has a larger army to support. He’s going to start getting hungry fast, and when that happens he’s going to have to choose between starvation or coming down from his mountain to fight us.’

Antonius smiled wickedly. ‘I hope he does. It’s about time we got the chance to crush the man’s balls. My main concern is that they might try to break out before we construct the ramparts.’

The general had given the order for the circumvallation of the oppidum to proceed at the quickest pace possible. The army was moving in shifts, cohorts resting and on guard duty while others worked, all under the watchful eye of a few legionary guards and cavalry scouts. Then at the next watch the cohorts and guards would swap. But still, eleven miles would take quite a while.

‘Vercingetorix will not commit his entire army to that,’ Fronto replied. ‘If he was willing to meet us in battle he’d have done it before now. He might test us a few times, though.’

‘Sooner rather than later, too,’ coughed Varus, dropping the wine bag and leaping up to the low, unfinished rampart a few paces away. The other two joined him, picking out the faint strains of a cavalry tuba blowing a desperate call a mile or two out across the plain.

It was dark enough now that it had become tough picking out individual detail down on the plain, excepting the camp fires dotted about providing focal points for the legions at work and at rest. But there, perhaps a mile and a half across the flat grassland, something was happening. A flood of large shapes was moving from the lower slopes towards where the Roman presence was thinnest.

Cavalry!

Varus turned to the legionary who was tending the fire, adding roughly-hewn logs from a nearby pile.

‘Bring my horse over here and sound the general alarm.’ His narrowed eyes fell upon Antonius. ‘And where are the Germans quartered?’

* * * * *

Lucterius of the Cadurci clung tight to his reins, urging on his horse to an even greater turn of speed. It had quickly become apparent, as he had stood at the walls of Alesia with his best warriors, that the plain was the only option for a breakout, despite the concentration of forces there. No sensible cavalry commander would try and take his force north, south, or east, for the hills they would have to cross were high and surmounted by fortifying legions. The horses would be too slowed by the gradient to present a show of strength at the top. And the two river valleys that ran northeast and southeast were too narrow for comfort. If the Romans had already set defences there — which any sensible besieger would — then they would be riding into almost certain death.

That had left the plain which, at almost three miles in length, was good ground for cavalry, and a little careful observation had easily picked out the weakest point. Here at the centre, perhaps two cohorts of men worked at digging a trench, the bulk of the forces concentrating on the main camp to the north end of the plain and the area below it.

The hooves of the seven hundred beasts conveying his force thundered down the lowest slopes, every man keeping their silence. It seemed odd, at least for the Cadurci among them, to be riding into a fight without their traditional whooping war cries, but their hope of overcoming the encircling forces relied as much on surprise as it did on strength. They had lost only a dozen or so men on the horrific, helter-skelter plunge down the steep hillside. Maybe a score. Astounding, really, considering the terrain in the dark.

Ahead, on the plain, the legions were now beginning to spot something happening. The odd native horsemen stationed around the place as scouts had noticed the force sweeping down the slope towards them. A horn blew to warn the Romans. Too late, thought Lucterius with a savage grin.

His horse was the first to reach the enemy, as was appropriate for a respected war leader, and his steed easily leapt the four foot ditch and the panicked legionary busy with his pick, tearing out chunks to deepen the defences. The mound behind it, made with the spoil from the ditch, was no more than three feet high yet — nowhere near enough to deter Lucterius’ forces.

His arm came out and back while his horse jumped and he swept it forward as a legionary rose from his digging, trying to present his tool as a defensive weapon to parry the blow. The long blade, its edge honed sharp for just such cavalry manoeuvres where thrusting was useless and backed by immense momentum, carved straight through the man’s arm as though it were naught more than butter, on and into his neck, where it bit deep, severing arteries and muscles and tendons. He felt the familiar tug as the dying body clung on to the blade wedged in it, but with a twist of the elbow, Lucterius changed his sword’s angle and it ripped out, already held to the rear and ready to sweep for another kill.

The Cadurci chieftain realised he was laughing maniacally, and had to force himself to remember that this was not a cavalry charge into battle. He was not here to maim and kill Romans. He was here to make it to freedom and carry the urgent request for reinforcements. His men seemed to be suffering a similar urge to kill. The first few men who had touched turf behind the defences alongside him had actually reined in their beasts and were busy laying about them with their blades, cutting down exhausted Romans.

More were arriving in the oppressive darkness and taking to the battle with glee.

There were so few enemies here really — just a few tired engineers building a wall. Perhaps he could allow his men the freedom to spend their time killing Romans for a few moments before they made for the south-western horizon?

No. This was no time to indulge their whims. Time now to get the Arvernian king’s message to the gathering at Bibracte. The army was relying on them, and Lucterius was once more a respected figure among them. He would not risk failure and ignominy again.

Turning, he spotted his standards — two men bearing the boar and the dragon — and near them the man with the horn on a strap round his neck. ‘Sound the signal to move out. This is not a fight, but a break out.’

As the three men did so Lucterius defied his own orders, aware that it would take a number of heartbeats yet for his entire force to cross the ditch and rampart, and devoting the time as he watched them jump down onto the flat turf to unleashing his fury upon the poorly-armed Romans. They had been digging, not preparing for the fight, and only one man in four was armoured and had kept his shield, most of them labouring away in just their russet tunics and unarmed apart from their tools. With a snarl of pure hatred, Lucterius hacked down with his gleaming, red-stained blade, cleaving through tunics, skin and muscle again and again, killing men with wild abandon.

Nearby, one of the enemy scouts — possibly Remi, certainly of some Belgic tribe — levelled a spear and charged across at him. Lucterius wheeled his horse to present his shield to the man, hefting his blade ready. The Belgian was good. His spear changed angle, and Lucterius had to adjust again and again as they closed until, with a crash, the spear slammed into his shield, ripping deep and splintering near the head.

Before the man could recover himself, Lucterius swept his sword down, carving off the rest of the spear and leaving the man with only a jagged two-foot stump. Turning his horse again, the Cadurci chieftain pulled back his blade to deliver a killing blow, but the Belgic scout was better even than he’d realised, and the man lunged forward in his saddle, his grip changing on the spear as he did so. Even as Lucterius’ blade managed a glancing blow that tore the mail shoulder-doubling from the main’s armour, the scout slammed the broken shaft deep into his thigh muscle, ravaged point first.

Lucterius bellowed his pain, drawing startled attention from all around him as the scout reached down, trying to draw his sword with a shoulder badly bruised from the previous blow. His eyes watering from the pain, Lucterius pushed his beast forwards with his knees, pumping blood out from his leg around the jutting wooden shaft, and hacked down again. His blow was well-aimed, brought down at the same point as his previous strike that had ruined the man’s mail shirt. The sword’s edge bit down into the angle of the Belgian’s neck and shoulder, sending shattered iron links showering up into the air and delivering a crippling and ultimately death-dealing blow. He did not have the luxury to finish the man swiftly, though, for already one of the few fully-armoured legionaries was running at him while his friends began to form up, collecting pila from a stack nearby.

The Cadurci signaller was blowing his instrument for all he was worth, trying to force the battle-hungry riders to move on and not delay just in order to murder Romans. Wheeling his horse away from the running Roman, Lucterius dropped his shield and used his left hand to wrench out the wooden shaft with a cry and then clutch his thigh, which pulsed with agony, sending waves of shock into his brain.

Ahead, he could see Nonnos, his second in command, entirely ignoring the order to leave as he delivered several unnecessary blows to a Roman who was already dead, though had not collapsed yet. Hoping he had time, Lucterius grabbed hold of his friend’s upper arm with a blood-soaked hand, almost bringing a sword blow upon himself from the surprised nobleman.

‘We have to go.’

Nonnos hesitated for a moment, his blood-lust up and visible in his wild eyes.

‘Set an example!’ snapped Lucterius, wrenching his hand back and clamping it over the thigh wound again. The chieftain turned to the open plain to the southwest. Some of his more obedient and wise riders were already making for the safety of the horizon. Far more, though, were mired down in killing Romans from whom they could very easily flee. He felt anger course through him. The signallers were still blowing the horn and waving the standards, but nothing seemed to be stirring his men from the fight. At least Nonnos had freed his blade and turned.

The legionary who had marked him earlier was closing on them, but two of the horsemen rode the soldier down and cut him to pieces long before he could get to the chieftain.

They had to go.

A new noise cut through the din and Lucterius peered into the inky dimness, his eyesight made all the poorer by the dotted Roman fires and the reflections they displayed in shield bosses and helmets. A new shape was moving in from the north. Roman tuba calls announced that their cavalry was on the way to take up the fight. They absolutely had to go now. Otherwise they would be caught here and kept busy until two or three legions converged on them, fully prepared, and cut them down.

One last try.

Turning, he viewed the battle in full swing. There had been remarkably few cavalry casualties, the Romans unprepared and unarmoured. And many legionaries lay around the earth, their blood mingling with the red of their tunics. But all that would change any moment.

‘Pull out and run!’ he bellowed into the press and was rewarded with attentive looks from the nearest perhaps half-dozen men. The tuba calls were nearer now, and a glance over his shoulder revealed a huge mass of horse hurtling across the plain towards them. It was too dark to pick out any useful detail about them, but it was impossible to miss, over the din of the approaching mob, the blood-hungry yelling and hooting in the guttural growl of the Germanic peoples. A memory swum into Lucterius’ mind of a big monster riding past him on the grass before Novioduno, fastening a severed head to his saddle horn. He shuddered. Any man not fleeing now… well gods help him!

Way to the rear of the Roman force, back up towards the large camp, he could hear the sound of cornicen calling out orders to the legions present as they fell in to protect the camp and the siege works, preparing for a full scale assault, even though only Lucterius and his cavalry had been in evidence so far.

Of the seven hundred men that had descended the hill with him, perhaps forty or fifty were now clear of the area, racing off into the southwest. Half a dozen of those men had the presence of mind to slow and check what was happening behind them, trying to ascertain where their chieftain was, aware that his continued survival as an ambassador was the prime reason for their flight. Maybe thirty or forty were now dead or down. Another twenty were gathering around Lucterius now, preparing to run, having heeded his final call. The remaining six hundred were clearly a lost cause, engaged in a melee with the Roman workers, heedless of the danger coming their way, despite the many warnings he had given them.

For all Vercingetorix’s grand talk about disregarding tribal boundaries and forming one great Gaul, such a possibility was still clearly far off. Far from the tightly-knit force of Cadurci Lucterius had led down that treacherous slope at Gergovia — many of whom had perished during that ill-fated attack on Caesar’s army a couple of days ago — the band of riders he had led down from Alesia this night had been the survivors of that assault, a mix of men from a dozen tribes and more, most of whom were only vaguely familiar with Lucterius and owed him no long-standing fealty.

This was no cavalry army of ‘one Gaul’. It was a mess of arguing tribes who paid little attention to the calls of their signallers or commanders. And because of that they would perish. He could only hope this wasn’t a simile for the whole war.

With a sad expression, he turned away from the bulk of his cavalry who were ignoring the closing Roman signals and taking out their frustration from their previous defeat upon the workmen. Joining the less-than-a-hundred men who had heeded his calls, Lucterius began to race southwest, away from the battle. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the majority of the Roman horse had maintained their course, making for the fracas, but some of the Germans — two or three hundred in total, perhaps — had veered off, their gaze locked on the fleeing riders.

The Germans! What had he done to deserve this?

The important thing was to get away, to carry the message. It left a sour taste in Lucterius’ mouth to flee the battlefield and not turn and face the monsters, but he could not afford to fail. Tearing his anxious eyes from the whooping, bellowing ironclad Germans, he leaned forward in the saddle, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, and kicked his horse into whatever reserves of speed the animal could manage.

A spear arced through the air a few feet to his left, indicating just how close their pursuers were, and a moment later one of his men disappeared from his saddle with a shriek, the horse pelting on riderless, its course unchanged.

‘Come… to… me… Arverni!’ snarled a hungry-sounding voice only a few paces back in a Germanic growl and Lucterius felt his heart pound all the faster. It seemed pointless to waste breath and focus correcting the man, and the Cadurci chieftain kept his sight fixed on the lead men among his fleeing force.

The first he knew of his pursuer’s attack was when the moonlight betrayed the man, casting a shadow across his own horse’s flank. He glanced right urgently just in time to see a giant, hairy German atop a shaggy horse five hands higher than his own, his sword raised ready for a downward chop. There was little he could do to stop it. In desperation, he raised his own sword.

The German’s strength was impressive. The big sword came down like the collapsing of mountains, unstoppable and irresistible. Lucterius watched in horror as the heavy blade smashed his own to pieces, carving straight down through it, hacking off the front left horn of his saddle and then chopping deep into the back and shoulder of his horse. The animal lurched and the missing horn of his saddle, combined with his wounded thigh and the horse’s bucking, served to easily unseat him, expert horseman though he was.

Lucterius knew he was in trouble. Wounded, weaponless, and now falling from his steed, he would never see Bibracte and bring aid to the army. His arms flailed out as he fell, instinctively and with no conscious purpose in mind.

The fingers of his right hand closed on the German’s saddle, grasping desperately at the leather. As he felt his fingers scrabbling for purchase, his left hand closed around the man’s leg wrappings. Knowing that letting go meant death added a hitherto untapped strength to his struggle, and he was swiftly hauling himself up. The German, his face betraying no fear — only irritation — raised his huge sword and tried to angle it down at the figure clinging to his leg and saddle.

Lucterius’ right hand, still finding it almost impossible to maintain a good grip on the leather due to the bouncing, jolting gait of the horse, came up sharply and grabbed the wrist of the descending arm, forcing the sword out away from him at the same time as using the grip to pull himself further up.

He almost lost control when his left leg bounced against something, causing his wound to send sheets of jagged pain through him. Then he realised what it was his leg had hit: his wounded horse had somehow veered back in its excruciated, panicked race. With only a moment’s thought, he thrust out with his good leg, found purchase against his ruined animal’s bloody shoulder, and braced, launching himself with a push.

The sudden manoeuvre took the German by surprise, and Lucterius hit the big man hard and felt him falling away to the far side. Instantly, he let go of the man’s wrist and leg and scrabbled for the reins. One hand closed on the leather and, as the German disappeared down the other side with a cry that became a scream as his own huge horse ran over him, Lucterius fell. His feet hit the ground at speed, bad one first, and he shrieked. Then he was hanging from the reins, feet bouncing along the turf as the horse ran, riderless.

His arm muscles creaking and shrieking with the effort, he hauled himself up the beast’s side and slowly, with dreadful exertion, into the saddle. The horse was so large it felt odd to be up here.

Settling in the saddle, he looked around. Most of the Germans had given up the chase as unproductive, and had turned to the majority of Lucterius’ horse, who had finally learned their folly as their massacring of the Roman workers turned to their own demise, a huge cavalry force ploughing into them. Fools.

Perhaps a dozen Germans were still on his heels, though, their horses large and tireless. And he was now unarmed too, of course.

‘Save the king, Lucterius,’ a voice called from his left. He turned in confusion to see Nonnos slow and wheel his horse to face their pursuers. Of the other five men around them, three joined him — all men of the Cadurci, Lucterius noted with curious pride — while the other two raced on. Four men on tired mounts, some wounded, facing a dozen of the heavily armed and armoured German riders. They would be dead in heartbeats.

But they might buy his life with their own.

Lucterius kicked the huge horse and was surprised at the extra speed the big beast seemed to find, racing off ahead, quickly outstripping the other two and gaining on the rest of the fleeing tribesmen ahead. He bit his lip and raced on, feeling somewhat sick at the fact that he was using all those behind him to buy time for his own survival. A quick glance at the two men racing with him confirmed that they were already falling behind, and he realised from their panicked faces that the pair could hear the Germans gaining on them. Sickened with himself, he nonetheless willed them to slow and be caught by their pursuers, buying him yet more precious moments.

He kept his head down and forged ahead into the darkness, ignoring any peril and concentrating on his path. He felt the ground falling away and managed to bring the big beast up and into a jump as he reached a stream bed, clearing it and landing with ease on the far side, feeling tears stain his cheek at the fresh wave of pain from his leg.

His racing mind gradually registered a noise from far behind: a new call on one of those dreadful honking German horns. His gaze shifted over his shoulder again and for the first time since he had reached level ground, his heart sent a calming wave through him.

There was no longer any sign of pursuit. The call he’d heard must have been for them to fall back and abandon the chase. His heart leapt again as a horse suddenly burst through the undergrowth at the far side of the stream, behind him, but the animal slowed as it reached the water, suddenly intent on drinking its fill. The limp body of Nonnos leaned in the saddle, spattered with blood and death-grey, but still wedged between the horns.

Staring at Nonnos, Lucterius sent up a prayer of thanks to the gods for the bravery of his tribe and his second, and for his own survival. Then, convinced of his safety, for the time being at least, he paused and unwrapped the rough leather belt that he had around his tunic, tying it around the top of his thigh and pulling it tighter and tighter until he gasped at the pain, then cinching it.

Now at least he shouldn’t bleed out before he reached Bibracte.

Time to raise the tribes to his lord’s cause.

* * * * *

‘What is the result?’

Fronto turned at Caesar’s question, the early morning sunlight still gracing only the oppidum and the surrounding peaks, leaving these low valleys and the plain in shade. The attack of the Gallic cavalry had been pointless and brief, doing little damage to the legions and the defences they were constructing, but it had become apparent that there was more to the action than just a suicidal attack.

‘They’re still bringing in the odd body from as far as the Brennus river a couple of miles to the south, general, but the current count is four hundred and twenty three Gallic dead and one hundred and eight captives. Most of them are at least lightly wounded, but the medicus reckons only thirty or so of them are on their way out.’

‘I want them roped and sent under guard to Agedincum. When we finish the rebels, we will require a goodly number of slaves to fund a healthy donative to the men for their hard work.’

Fronto nodded. ‘There is one that you might be interested in, though, Caesar.’

Speeding up, Fronto wandered along the lines of dejected prisoners being herded this way and that by hard-faced legionaries, and the blood-slicked stinking dead being stacked ready for disposal. At the end of the busy area, huge stacks of timber and wicker, piles of rope coils and heaps of tools awaited transport to the next section of the construction. Among them a man sat slumped, naked to the waist, wounded in a dozen places, missing a hand, which was bound with a soaked scarf, and coated with blood and grime. He was clearly a Gaul, his hair long and braided by the ear, moustaches clogged with blood and stuck together, almost comically jutting out to the side of his face, like a hairy, crimson wing.

He was not bound, but there seemed little chance of him running, since his leg lay at an odd angle from the knee, broken more than once, and badly so. Amid the grime, the general could pick out bronze and gold, including arm rings and a torc. A noble, then.

Five legionaries and an optio stood around the man, the officer a lantern-jawed fellow with gimlet eyes.

‘Talk to us,’ the optio urged his prisoner in a gravelly tone. When the captive simply turned a defiant stare on him, the officer stepped forward and placed his hob-nailed boot on the man’s ruined knee, gently rolling it back and forth. The man screamed, but bit defiantly down on the cry and fell silent, hissing against the pain. Caesar raised an eyebrow, but Fronto cleared his throat.

‘That’s enough,’ he said to the optio. ‘He’ll not break like that.’

As the optio saluted and stepped back, Fronto crouched close, though not close enough to endanger himself. ‘I can see from your expression that you understand my words. You are broken, my friend. Quite apart from the leg, I note that one of your wounds oozes very dark blood from the belly and that you are already noticeably greying. I suspect your liver has been nicked. If you’re lucky, that’s the case and you’ll slowly bleed out over the next few hours. If not, then I’m wrong, and the belly wound will be the one that kills you, very slowly and very painfully. Ever seen a man die from a belly wound? It’s not pretty, and it can last for days.’

The man glared at Fronto. ‘Threaten me all you wish, Roman. I will not break.’

‘I’m not threatening you,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘I’m simply explaining the facts. What I will offer you is this: you answer a few simple questions and I will grant you a very quick warrior’s death. How’s that?’

‘No.’

Fronto looked up at Caesar. The general was clearly weighing his options, and the legate felt certain that he would come down in favour of torture soon enough… experience suggested so, anyway. He smiled. Sometimes the most defiant man could be the most revealing. Priscus had taught him the trick with recalcitrant legionaries during disciplinary hearings. He leaned forward again.

‘It was no attack, clearly. Only a fool would commit such a small force to an attack like that. Your king must have known that you would lose. And when our cavalry countered, the officers said that your men fled not in the direction of Alesia, but away, towards the river and south. After all this time in the field, I find it hard to picture cowards among your army.’

At the word coward, the man’s face hardened and his eyes glittered angrily. Fronto nodded. ‘They were not running from the battle, of course. They were no cowards, were they? And if they were not running from the fight, that suggests that they were intending to run in the first place. Perhaps that was the whole purpose of the attack? A breakout of the cavalry? But not simply to save you, even though you’d be of no further benefit in Alesia, eating all the grain but providing little use. So why?’

He smiled again. ‘Where would you run but to fetch reinforcements?’

He was rewarded with an involuntary flicker of the eyelid as the man tried to keep his face expressionless. Fronto nodded. ‘Reinforcements. Possibly already gathered, but I suspect more than that. You were to raise new troops to relieve the rebels, yes?’

Another flicker and Fronto almost laughed at how easy the man was to read. ‘And you broke southwest. I suppose the riders could have gone anywhere once they passed from our view, but my money’s on them staying on that very course. Because if I opened up a map right now and drew a line southwest from Alesia, where the riders went, it would pass right through Bibracte, where the tribes so often gather to sort things out.’

Again the man flinched slightly at the name of the Aeduan capital. Fronto chuckled and looked up at Caesar. ‘That’s it. Vercingetorix sent his cavalry out to Bibracte to raise the rest of the tribes. And over the years we’ve more or less made that place the political focal point for the whole of Gaul. By noon today, if they ride their horses into the ground, the survivors will be there.’

Caesar took a deep breath. ‘Then we have days — weeks at the most — before a relief force gathers here. Potentially a very large one.’

‘It seems likely.’

‘And currently we are already slightly outnumbered. If a sizeable second force comes, we could find ourselves in dire straits.’

‘Quite.’

As Caesar stood in silence, Fronto turned back to the Gaul. ‘Thank you for your silence.’ Quickly, he ripped his blade from its sheath and used his left hand to push the Gaul’s head forward, placing the point between two vertebrae at the bottom of the neck. The Gaul put up no resistance and Fronto took a deep breath and jammed the blade down. There was a crack and a spray of blood and the body jerked and then slumped beneath him.

Nonnos passed from the world of men with honour and Fronto tore a strip from the man’s discarded bloody tunic and rose, wiping his sword thoroughly and sheathing it once more.

‘What do we do? We cannot afford to abandon this place. If his force builds again and we let him go, we’ll end up on the run.’

Caesar nodded. ‘It has to end here, no matter what. The siege works must be enhanced. We have eleven miles of circumvallation planned already: a ditch and rampart connecting the redoubts and camps all around Alesia. This is clearly not going to be enough, however. The rampart will be raised to a height of two men and then topped with the palisade and towers. Instead of one ditch, we will have two. I will have lilia pits, sharpened branches, spikes and caltrops in the flat ground and more branches at the bottom of the palisade, and any other measures our engineers can come up with. And the flat lands will need an extra hurdle for the enemy. The engineers will drive a wide, deep ditch across the entire plain at the base of the hill, connecting the two rivers and flooding it.’

Fronto whistled with a frown. ‘Juno, but that’s some work, general. I’m not sure we’ll have time to carry all that eleven miles before a relief army gets here. Besides, I don’t understand how that helps us against a second army.’

Caesar straightened.

‘That is because I haven’t finished, Fronto. Eleven miles facing inwards will keep Vercingetorix and his hounds caged. A second line of fortifications — identical ones — will be drawn outside the first. It will have to be several miles longer and will face outwards to protect against any relief force.’

Fronto’s eyes widened. ‘Another? That’s weeks of work even if we use every man we have. Can it be done?’

Caesar smiled. ‘You should spend more time reading your histories and less time cavorting, Fronto. Scipio built a stone wall six miles long around Numantia, with added defences and towers, and all in a few short days. Our line may be a lot longer, but I am not asking for stone. Just earth and timber. And we have a much larger army than he to do it with. It can be done, Fronto. It will be done. And when it is done, we will draw all the army and supplies between the two circuits.’

‘Caesar, if a large enemy force arrives, we’ll essentially be under siege ourselves.’

‘But so will the rebels on the hill, but they will become hungry and we will have time to gather plenty of supplies. We do not have to be able to last forever. We only need to outlast the rebel king.’

Fronto stared, still shaking his head. As the general nodded, satisfied, and walked away, the Tenth’s legate looked down at the peaceful, still form of the rebel horseman, released from pain.

‘I have a feeling that in the coming days, I might envy you.’

Chapter 18

Atenos stormed across the ruined turf, torn by hundreds of nailed boots, vine staff gripped in his white-knuckled hand. The legionary wiped his sweat-drenched face with his scarf and then carefully tucked the material back beneath the edge of his mail shirt to prevent chafing and fastened it with a bronze pin. He was reaching up with his helmet to put it back on when the vine staff caught him a fiery, sharp snap across the back of his thighs. The helmet fell from shocked hands, rolling away across the grass as the soldier turned, his hand going to the pommel of his sword.

As he spun, his eyes fell upon the harness across the big Gallic centurion’s mail shirt, hung with medals and torcs, and his eyes slid slowly, full of dread, upwards to rest upon the hard, angry eyes of the legion’s most senior centurion. His hand left the pommel of his sword, trembling slightly. The men of the Tenth had been in awe of this huge centurion since he had first joined, years ago, and his training regime was said to be the most punishing in all the army. No man had ever had the guts to cross him. One brave fellow — the legion’s inter-unit wrestling champion, built like a bear — had taken him on in a ring during the Saturnalia celebrations a year ago. His elbows still ached in the cold and wet and he had accepted a demotion in order to transfer a long way from his opponent.

But since the huge former Gallic mercenary had moved up from being the legion’s training officer in the wake of Carbo’s demise at Gergovia, he had taken on a yet harder dimension. Any softness about him — which had been difficult enough to find anyway — had apparently vanished with his appointment as primus pilus.

Atenos glared, and the legionary quailed.

‘What part of full kit escapes you, soldier?’

‘Sir… I just… I couldn’t see for the sweat in my eyes.’

‘Then sweat less. If I see your helmet come off once more, Glaucus, I will have the smiths weld a spike to the inside before you put it on again. Now get kitted up properly, pick up that axe and take down one of those saplings, and when you get back to camp, report straight to the latrines for clearance and extension duty.’

The soldier saluted, still trembling. As he stood waiting for Atenos to move away, the centurion blinked and brought his vine stick down on the man’s head, quite hard.

‘GET GOING!’

The legionary scrambled away, grabbing his helmet.

‘Centurion? I think we’ve got company,’ shouted one of the excused duty legionaries standing watch on the hillside. Atenos jogged over to the man and followed his pointing finger.

‘Well spotted.’ The big centurion squinted. ‘Can’t be more than a couple of hundred of them.’ The running Gauls had somehow descended the hillside from the oppidum unseen from the forage party’s position on this hill to the south of Alesia. Given the undulation of the plateau’s slope at the eastern end, the scrub and small coppices and thickets that covered the hillside, and the somewhat obfuscatory nature of the terrain the party worked in, it was hardly a surprise. But the Gauls must be idiots to think they would get anywhere close before they were spotted.

‘What are they doing, sir?’

‘We’re only three centuries, so they match our numbers, lad. They think they’ll take out a forage party. Picked the wrong bunch, though, eh?’

‘Want me to get a signal back to the camp, sir?’

Atenos paused for a moment in thought, but shook his head. ‘No point causing a major disturbance.’ He turned and cleared his throat. ‘Grab your pila and form up on me! Three blocks of four lines to my left, using all the open space.’

In a few heartbeats the party had downed tools, leaving branches half-adzed and trees with wedges cut from the base, ready to topple, grasping the shields that lay on the ground close to them as they worked. Running past the pilum stacks, each man took one and moved into line as ordered.

‘Front rank: pila at fifty paces and then down. Second rank: follow on the first. Third and fourth pass your pila forward as soon as the volleys are out, then first two repeat at twenty paces before you draw swords.’

The other centurions, signifers and musicians present relayed the command in case anyone had missed the commands in the centurion’s booming voice.

Half a hundred heartbeats the legionaries waited, arms starting to waver slightly with the effort of holding aloft the javelins. Then the first of the Gauls emerged from the bushes down the shallow slope. More and more burst from the undergrowth and, as they realised the Romans were aware of them and stealth was no longer of value, they began to yell war cries and push their tired, strained muscles to a last burst of speed.

‘Steady, lads.’

Another fourteen heartbeats, and the first man passed the shrub that Atenos had selected as a distance marker.

‘Ready… throw!’

With a fluid grace that had come from years of Atenos’ hard training, more than fifty arms jerked back a foot and then came forward, casting the javelins. Barely had the missiles left their grip before they dropped behind their large body shields and the second rank repeated the manoeuvre.

A hundred pila fell in two close waves, the descending gradient aiding their distance and power, and almost all the visible front ranks of Gallic attackers fell, torsos, heads, legs and arms pierced by the javelins. Here and there a man had managed to get his shield up and the pila had ripped through them, bending and becoming fast, their weight dragging the shields down and away until the Gauls gave up and dropped them.

More were coming, though. The Gauls were bellowing their defiance and hatred as they emerged still from the scrub in a ragged band. This time, as he had planned, Atenos waited, allowing the enemy to close on them, heaving in breaths as they climbed. As the first few men passed the centurion’s next marker, he glanced quickly to his left. Swiftly, efficiently, the rear ranks had passed their pila forward.

‘Mark and throw.’

The third and fourth volley followed in quick succession, every bit as effective as the earlier ones, more deadly, given the closer range.

By the time the living had extricated themselves from the dying and cast away damaged and useless shields, the legionaries were formed up in a solid wall, the three centuries closing up into one unit. Ten paces away, the lead Gauls snarled and shouted, clambering closer, sweating with the effort. The Romans stood calm and collected, each man a perfect mirror of his companions.

The first Gaul arrived and leapt at the wall. The legionary behind the shield he hit turned his arm slightly, allowing the man to roll off the curved surface and, as the Gaul simply changed target, launching a savage attack on the man next to him, that first legionary took the opportunity to jab the tip of his gladius into the Gaul’s armpit, recovering his position in the shield line before the next man arrived, the first victim falling away gurgling.

The Gallic force began to arrive in greater numbers, attempting to push the shield-wall back and buckle the defensive line. Atenos had no doubt that his men could hold. One of the many innovations he had brought to the Tenth since his arrival was the addition of a bronze or wood lip just inside the top right corner of their shields, allowing the man next to a legionary to slot his shield in, giving the wall tremendous extra stability, and yet allowing a man to pull his shield free and stab out, which the men were doing with mechanical speed and accuracy.

Leaving his men to their work, Atenos concentrated on doing his part. A centurion had to lead by example, and he had never yet led men into a fight without drawing as much blood as any other man. Indeed, he and Carbo had had something of a private competition going. Carbo had been ahead by an estimated ten bodies, though it seemed Atenos would likely pass that total before the week was out.

Five men were coming in his direction, veering off from the bulk of the enemy and heading for the extreme right flank, aiming for the man in the transverse crest, recognised as an officer. The first of them threw an overhand attack which was easily blocked with the centurion’s shield, but Atenos felt a moment of irritation as the legionary to his left took the opportunity to help his commander and jabbed out unseen, ripping his gladius into the Gaul’s side.

One down. Atenos tried not to feel angry at his man for the blow — he should really be praised for it. Concentrating on the fight, he swung his shield down and right, slamming the bottom rim into the next man’s shin and thrusting down over it with his gladius, ripping a hole in the Gaul’s mail with the tapering point and piercing his heart with simple accuracy. The man cried out briefly and the centurion brought the shield back up, pushing as he did, so that the Gaul fell away into the path of one of the other attackers while the Roman’s blade came free.

A sharp jerk out with his left arm and the shield cracked into another man, knocking him back and buying Atenos time to stab out and then slash with his gladius, taking the fifth man in the neck and then cutting across his midriff. The Gaul who’d been felled by his own dead friend had apparently decided that the centurion was too tough a prospect and had staggered to his feet and run off to attack one of the clearly-less-dangerous legionaries. The remaining man, unarmoured and his face bloody from the shield blow, blinked the crimson flow from his eyes and threw himself at the centurion.

Casually, contemptuously, Atenos simply stepped back a pace and allowed the Gaul to overextend with his strike. As the man almost fell forward into the blow, the big centurion brought his own sword down and hacked off the man’s hand just above the wrist, where the bones were delicate and the muscle thinnest.

As the staggering, agonized Gaul yelped, Atenos grabbed his tunic and drew him face to face, speaking in a low, menacing rumble and in his own native Gallic tongue.

‘Go back and tell your friends that the Tenth are waiting to chain them to the lord of corpses for their journey to the next world.’

The Gaul stared at Atenos in horror and bewilderment and, unable to tear his eyes from this demonic Roman with the Gallic tongue and the knowledge of Ogmios, he turned and fled. Atenos looked down in satisfaction at the array of bodies before them and ran a small calculation in his mind. Looking along the line of legionaries, finishing off the last few enemies already, he grinned.

‘Three hundred little fights like that and we’ll have ‘em beat, lads.’

As perhaps twenty Gauls fled back down the slope, Atenos freed the shield-wall, and the better throwers among the front rows stooped, pulling the few intact pila from earth or flesh and then casting them after the retreating Gauls, taking another half dozen before they were fully out of range.

It would be nice to think that this little show meant the rebels were getting desperate already, but Atenos knew the Gallic mind. These were small test forays and nothing more. Someone up on that hill was watching the result.

* * * * *

Lucterius fell silent, his last words — a plea from the heart to commit everything they could to the cause — ringing around the council hall of Bibracte. His heart sank. He had expected a raucous reaction, whatever the result. He’d hoped the various tribal leaders and ambassadors would leap to their feet enthusiastically, seeing this as their great chance to do away with Caesar, shouting and bellowing their bloodlust as they committed every man old enough to carry a spear. More realistically, he’d expected an explosion of argument as some tribes threw in their wholehearted support while others dithered. Then there’d be a period of negotiation in which his rhetoric would be put to the test, attempting to get all the men the army needed.

What he had not expected was the complete absence of reaction. No noise, no movement, nothing. After a long pause, two of the assembled leaders shared some sort of unspoken conversation and concluded it with a nod, the pair rising to their feet on opposite sides of the chamber.

As the spokesman for the Carnutes took a step forward, the ambassador for their neighbouring tribe, the Senones, rose beside him. But these two remained silent, nodding to the other standing figure.

Convictolitanis of the Aedui folded his arms as though unassailable and breathed deep.

‘The Arvernian king demands too much. He believes we can supply a constant stream of men for him to cast into Caesar’s ditches. He does not seem to understand that while the men of the tribes are at war the fields lie untilled and all the necessary trades that keep our societies moving grind to a halt. And meanwhile the German tribes are causing trouble enough that the Treveri cannot afford to join us, so hard pressed are they. What happens if the Treveri fail and the Germans push deep into our lands to find all our warriors away under grave markers beside Roman camps? And what if the pushes against the south fail and draw Roman retaliation? What if all our men are fighting Caesar and Pompey or one of his generals marches north from Narbo with another ten legions?’

The man shook his head and fixed a sympathetic look on the Cadurci chieftain.

‘It is not that we do not appreciate the situation or the sheer bravery and skill of your army. It is not that we underestimate your achievements, Lucterius. We voted to support you, after all. It is simply that we cannot commit every man of every tribe.’

Lucterius opened his mouth to speak, but the Aeduan magistrate chattered on regardless. ‘You see, Lucterius, while you were all charging around the countryside, wasting the cavalry of the tribes, we have carefully accounted for all the manpower available across our states. It is simply out of the question to send every able bodied warrior to help Vercingetorix, I am afraid. But while we all recognise the importance of keeping a defensive force for our own protection and to keep our societies functioning, we can also accept the value of supporting the Arverni’s war effort. It seems viable to me, with the consent of my peers of course, to divide the forces we have counted up roughly evenly between the war against Caesar and the needs of our own tribes.

The Cadurci chieftain felt the ire rising within him.

‘This is ridiculous. You’re all being so short-sighted! Vercingetorix asks for every man. Every man! And you know why? Because he is a brilliant leader and he knows what it takes to beat Caesar. You need to supply every man who can carry a sword. Because if we lose this battle, then we lose the war, and with the manpower we’ve thrown into it that means we lose for good. If we lose, every man who can carry a sword — whether they rode with us or stood on their farmstead watching for Germans — is going to end up as a Roman slave. But if we win? If we win, we will be free. Every man, everywhere, will be free. Don’t you see? There is no sense in a partial commitment to this cause. It’s all or nothing. Send every man to ensure success, or give up now and sell your children to Caesar.’

‘You do not understand the realities, Lucterius. You Cadurci are surrounded by allied tribes and safe in the west. You are not threatened by Rome or the tribes across the Rhenus. You ride with blind devotion because you have had no cause to see problems elsewhere. No. We can grant you a strong force. A force that will match the army the Arvernian already leads.’ He dredged his memory and counted off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘Half the overall warriors of the tribes. That’s thirty thousand from the Aedui and our allies. Twelve thousand from the tribes along the Elaver and the upper Liger. Ten thousand from the Belgae and the Lemovices. Eight from the Parisii and their neighbours. Five from the eastern tribes near the Germanic threat and from the northern sea tribes. Thirty thousand from the tribes of the old Helvetii mountains and below. Six thousand from the western sea tribes. That, if I have my math correct, gives you just over one hundred thousand men.’

Lucterius frowned. It would be a large force. But then, if that was half the men available, think what force they could field. And a sensible commander who knew the efficiency and power of the legions would never commit happily to battle without at least four-to-one odds in their favour.

‘We need more. It sounds a lot to you, but you’ve not watched those legions at work this summer. We will only crush them with sound strategy, bravery, and overwhelming numbers.’

‘Then look to yourselves,’ the Carnute leader snapped. ‘We are aware that not all the Cadurci are committed. Nor can the same be said for the Arverni and their lesser tribes. Throw in more numbers of your own. Our figures suggest you can field another thirty thousand between you.’

Lucterius nodded, remembering the trusted nobles of Arverni and Cadurci blood he’d sent south this morning under the command of his loyal nephew Molacos, just before they’d arrived at Bibracte. One hundred and thirty thousand in all, then. It was a powerful force, for sure. But still not the force they could produce.

‘All our people are already being summoned, Aeduan. We commit every man we have now, just as the king requires. Once more, I ask you, for the good of all the tribes and generations of free men to come, forget your ephemeral other dangers and your potteries and farms for this one season, forget that you are a hundred tribes, and be one nation with one army. Every man is needed. Every sword can make the difference.’

‘I will make your difference.’

Lucterius turned in surprise at the voice from the doorway — a tone heavily inflected with the Belgic accent. The speaker was well-attired in Gallic trousers and gold and bronze torcs and rings, but with a very Roman-looking cloak and crimson tunic.

‘Commius?’ murmured Convictolitanis in surprise, and Lucterius frowned. He knew of only one Commius. The chieftain of the Atrebates, who had been Caesar’s staunchest ally in the north for many years. A man Caesar himself had put in charge of conquered tribes such as the Morini. A man more Roman than Gaul. A man… could this really be him?

‘Lucterius of the Cadurci? Take the men the council offers. I have thirty thousand mixed cavalry and infantry arriving from the north this day, mere hours behind me. I come to join your struggle and take war to Rome.’

Lucterius frowned. Another thirty thousand. One hundred and sixty in total. Not the number he’d hoped. It would give them perhaps three-to-one odds. But it was clearly the best he was going to manage. And time was now of the essence. The longer Vercingetorix had to hold, the hungrier, weaker and more despondent the trapped tribes would get. He would have to march the men being offered as soon as they could be assembled.

‘Very well. I will take your forces and relieve Alesia.’

‘Not quite,’ Convictolitanis said, eyes narrowing. ‘The Arvernian king sends you away from the fight.’ He raised his voice, addressing not Lucterius, but the rest of the ambassadors and leaders in the room. ‘He does this because he is unconvinced of the Cadurci chief’s value as a commander. Remember, we have all heard the stories. Sent to ravage Narbo, and this man ran north instead, with his tail between his legs, having met Caesar.’

Lucterius’ eyes widened. He felt his blood begin to boil.

‘And he failed to save Novioduno, chased off by a band of hired Germans.’

The room was beginning to nod their agreement, and Lucterius spluttered angrily. ‘I saved Gergovia. And at the cavalry fight before Alesia I was the only one who managed to save some of the riders.’

‘You led a reckless, stupid charge at Gergovia, and you managed to run away from a cavalry fight,’ snapped Convictolitanis. ‘The Aedui will not entrust their new force to your care, and nor will any other here, I feel. Command your own Arverni and Cadurci contingent, Lucterius.’

The Cadurci chief hardly dared breathe for fear his temper should fail entirely and he cross the room and break the Aeduan magistrate in half.

‘Let Commius command the army,’ suggested the Carnute chief, bringing more nods from around the room.

‘A man who has wiped Caesar’s arse for five years now?’ retorted Lucterius angrily.

Commius simply regarded him with apparent sympathy. ‘I will lead the army if it is the wish of this gathering, though I would have each tribal contingent commanded by one of their own under my generalship.’

Lucterius stared, unable to believe how unexpectedly wrong things had gone here. As he listened to the room roar its consent and approval of the Atrebate chief’s appointment, all he could do now was hope that Commius was up to the job.

* * * * *

Cavarinos looked at the gathered leaders in this large structure built against the western walls of Alesia, their features lit by the dancing flames of the central fire pit.

‘We have to consider the possibility that Lucterius has failed, and that there is no help coming. We have no way to be sure that he even managed to make it past the Romans that night. None of the men made it back here.’

Vergasillaunus shook his head. ‘I am convinced he made it. And the druids confirmed it with questions to the gods and with auguries.’

‘The gods pay attention to such trivial matters, do they?’

‘We cannot afford to wait forever for an army that may or may not be coming,’ grunted Teutomarus. ‘Food is already becoming an issue. The Mandubii are eating more than we expected, and soon we will begin to starve.’

‘Perhaps Caesar would consider terms?’ asked one of the lesser chiefs in the darkened corner nervously. Cavarinos couldn’t help feel for the young man, but even though he himself would have approved of almost anything by now that avoided the fight to come, he knew as well as any of them that the time for talking was long past.’

‘There will be no surrender,’ Vercingetorix said with finality.

‘A fight, then,’ Teutomarus said quietly. ‘Time to sally out and try and take them?’

‘Foolish,’ countered the king. ‘It has been almost two weeks. Their defences are complete and their legions encamped and our numerous forays found no weak spots. Caesar and his generals have laid their siege carefully. Any attack would be inviting our complete destruction. Without the aid of a relief force, we are doomed. And I still have heart that Lucterius will bring us those men. We will not take the fight to the Romans until relief arrives or until we are starting to die and there is no other choice. We must therefore seek measures to extend our stay here.’

‘Let no one speak of capitulation,’ snarled Critognatos, standing. ‘Cowards are worse warriors than corpses. I would suggest that that man,’ he pointed at the nervous chieftain in the corner, ‘be ejected from the city and relieved of his command.’

‘Out of the question,’ said Vercingetorix, and Critognatos harrumphed.

‘A sally would be wasteful,’ the big noble rumbled. ‘We have thrown enough hundred to the Roman she-wolf in testing their defences to know that it is futile. The king is correct that we must wait for the relief, who will come. How could the tribes let us die here without support? And look to the Romans’ siege works: they defend themselves not only against us, but against an unseen enemy from beyond. The Romans know that relief is coming. So the king is right: we must endure until then.’

Cavarinos narrowed his eyes. Such sense and reason seemed so far out of character for his brother that he waited with bated breath for the catch.

Critognatos rolled his shoulders and spread his hands.

‘Who here does not know the tales of our ancient heroes? Who does not know of the war against the Teutones and the Cimbri? Our grandfathers and great grandfathers fought those invaders who had crossed the Rhenus, and when they found themselves trapped in the same manner as us, what did they do?’

No!

Cavarinos felt his blood chill. All knew of that story, though few spoke of it. There was the catch. There was Critognatos’ casual inhumanity bubbling to the surface, just as he’d expected.

‘Yes. It seems unthinkable. But our ancestors survived siege and great privation through such sacrifice. In such times of war, women, children, the old and the wounded are nothing but a drain on supplies. In the face of the Cimbri, such folk — useless to the war — had the honour and sense to take their own life and not burden the army with their continued presence.’

Vergasillaunus was shaking his head. ‘This is different. There the sacrificed were their own tribe. Here, we would be asking our hosts to do this unthinkable.’ His gaze slid to the Mandubian chief, whose eyes had bulged and face paled. ‘We cannot expect the Mandubii to take their own lives just to spare the grain for the rest of us.’

Cavarinos glared at his brother with distaste. ‘You’re suggesting more than that, aren’t you, Critognatos. Because we all know what happened to the bodies of those women and children.’

The room fell silent. No one would speak of the cannibalism that had risen among the besieged in those days. The survivors had outlasted the German onslaught by eating the corpses of those who could not fight. Almost every gaze in the room — barring the one nervous young chief who dare not — looked around at Critognatos, who simply shrugged.

‘This is war. In times of war we do what we must in order to win.’

Cavarinos snorted, but his brother bridled. ‘War makes unpleasant demands on everyone. This army had no compunction about burning cities and farms to prevent the Romans foraging. Or about abandoning unimportant settlements to death or slavery at their hands. We do what we must. How many children and women died because we burned their crops and butchered their animals? But you come out of that as master tacticians! This is no different.’

‘It is entirely different,’ snarled Cavarinos. ‘I will have no part in an army that would butcher the civilians here and eat their flesh just to drag out the war. I do not advocate surrender, and I would rather not launch myself at the Roman lines down there, but I damn well will not prolong my life at the expense of children!’

‘Then you will starve, we will lose, and those children will die anyway,’ said Critognatos with a sneer.

Before he knew it, Cavarinos was on his feet and growling, his hand going to the hilt of the sword at his side, contemptuous gaze fixed on his brother. In a heartbeat, Vergasillaunus was between then, his hands coming up to grip Cavarinos by the biceps. ‘Calm, my friend. Your brother just posits answers to our dilemma. We cannot and will not agree to such a measure.’

‘Though Critognatos’ suggestion does raise another possibility,’ said the king, his commanding tone cutting through the room and silencing the rising voices. All eyes turned to Vercingetorix, whose own gaze had fallen upon the Mandubian chieftain who ruled Alesia and whose face had drained of all colour in the past few moments.

‘My fearsome friend spoke hastily, but he is correct on one count: we cannot continue to feed those not involved in the war. It is my edict that every Mandubian who can raise a sword join the forces, and that the rest, including women and children and the old and ill pack their valuables. They will leave the oppidum by the south-western gate and seek passage through the Roman lines. The Romans are our enemies, but they pride themselves on being men of honour. They should let the civilians past, and they can then head south for the safety of Bibracte. And if the Romans cannot be persuaded to allow them passage by honour alone, they can buy it with their valuables.’

The Mandubian chief was shaking his head, his face despairing, but he could find no words to argue, for the king had spoken an edict and the decision had been made.

‘It is a waste,’ said Critognatos darkly.

‘What?’

‘The Romans will not let them leave. They will die before the legions’ defences, or they will come back here, and when they do we must be hard and not let them in to eat our grain once more, lest we all starve for it. But if they were to simply take a knife to their own throats, then the larders would fill with fresh meat and we would last weeks longer!’

Vergasillaunus lost his grip on Cavarinos as the angry noble ripped his arms free and threw himself at his brother.

‘You vile, sick, twisted bastard!’

Critognatos reeled under the first heavy punch and fell, enduring a flurry of blows before Cavarinos was pulled from him by three of the gathered chiefs. As the smaller of the two brothers was hauled back across room, flexing his knuckles and snarling imprecations, Critognatos rose with a malevolent grin, spitting out a broken tooth and wiping the smeared blood across his face.

‘Now that is the attitude that would win us the fight. See how my brother only gets his blood up when fighting his own.’

Cavarinos yelled and tried to break free of the restraining arms, his bloodied fists lunging.

‘Release the Mandubii, then,’ Critognatos spat out a wad of blood. ‘But heed my words. When they come crawling back, you cannot let them back in unless it is as meat.’

* * * * *

Fronto climbed the rampart and peered down at the scene before them.

Several thousand women, children, old men and invalids, some on carts, some with beasts of burden, everyone with a bag of their belongings. None armed or armoured. No warriors here. And many in floods of hysterical tears. He felt sick.

‘We don’t have to house them or feed them, Caesar, but the noble thing to do would be to let them through. They pose no threat to us.’

‘Not directly,’ the general replied, eyeing the distraught civilians with a neutral expression.

‘You cannot be seriously considering turning them down.’

‘I am doing just that, Fronto.’

‘What threat are they to us?’

‘None. But their very presence tells us that the rebels are beginning to find food in short supply. Why else would they send their womenfolk to us? They are conserving supplies. And that means that every mouth we allow past our defences eases the enemy’s situation.’

‘That’s cold, general.’

Caesar turned to Fronto. ‘We can be fairly sure that a relief force is on the way, the size of which is unknown. It could be massive. If there is any chance that we can bring Alesia to its knees before that happens, we must leap at it. We cannot let these people go free. This is war, Fronto, and we do what we must to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion as soon as possible.’

‘I understand that, Caesar. I do. But we are dealing with a general who burned his own people’s lands just to deny us food. Do you think for one moment Vercingetorix will let those people back into the city to resume their drain on his granaries?’

‘Probably not.’

‘And so those people will be trapped on the slopes and will starve and die beneath their own walls.’

‘Which will undoubtedly cause ructions and distress to the enemy up there. Imagine how you would feel if it were your wife or sister, Marcus.’

Fronto simply could not find a more convincing argument against the inhumanity of this course. Military logic wholly supported the general’s decision, but Fronto’s heart could not.

A voice called up beyond the wall in stilted, thickly-accented Latin, and the half-dozen assembled officers stepped to the parapet once more. In the wide flat stretch of ground between the initial wide ditch and the more wicked Roman defences, one of the Mandubian civilians had stepped forth. He was an old man, almost entirely balding and with a heavily-lined, careworn face.

‘Slave!’

‘What?’ asked Antonius, frowning.

‘We be slave!’

Fronto felt his heart sink slightly further. That the poor bastards might voluntarily offer themselves up for slavery told him with no uncertainty that the whole bunch were well aware of their position — little more than a burden to their own people and a weapon to the general. Some of the legionaries on the wall looked around at the officers hopefully. Slaves meant money, and every man in the army had made a small nest-egg with the funds from six years of slave caravans back south to Italia and Massilia and Narbo.

Fronto shook his head at the nearest one. ‘Eyes front!’

As the legionaries turned back, disappointed at such lost profit, Fronto raised his eyebrow at Caesar.

‘No,’ the general said finally, addressing the old man beyond the wall, the ditches, the pits and the sharpened stakes. ‘There will be no slavery here. You are not permitted to pass our lines and we have no need of you. Return to your city.’

‘Can… not,’ managed the old man in the unfamiliar tongue.

‘You have no choice. We cannot have you camped around our defences. You have the count of two hundred to take your beasts and carts and move back up the slope, or my scorpions and archers will start pinning limbs to the ground. Now go.’

As the man shook his head desperately, Caesar turned his glittering gaze on Fronto. ‘Give them a clear count of two hundred and then have the barrage begin.’

Fronto nodded unhappily, and the general turned to Antonius. ‘And tell the artillerists to aim for wounds, not kills. We want a deterrent to drive them back up the hill, not a thousand corpses to bury.

* * * * *

Cavarinos stood before the oppidum’s heavy wall, atop a steep incline where the greenery often gave way to striations of bare grey rock, the heat beginning to make the day tiresome already. A mile below and to the west he perused the most impressive section of the Roman siege works. No different in form really to the rest of the circuit, this section on the flat plain provided the best view and, because of the level ground, the twin ditches before the rampart were water-filled here. To the right hand — northern — edge of the plain, at the base of Mons Rea, the largest of the Roman camps sprawled across the lower slopes.

It was permanently busy. Units of horse were constantly ranging out over the nearby countryside and returning, the outer gates spending more time open than closed, forage parties collecting timber and stone and the grain and livestock commandeered from the local Mandubian farmers, legions training and exercising, engineers and work parties upgrading, improving and maintaining the system.

Or at least, that had been the case until half an hour ago. Then, as the late morning sun had approached its apex, sweating out the worst of the summer day, the ranging Roman scout units had arrived back at the fortifications en masse and at speed. The forage parties had been withdrawn into the fortifications, engineers and workers dismissed back to their units and the legions called to standards and then deployed around the ramparts.

Relief? After nine days of hardship it had seemed too much to hope.

His eyes slid closer, to the scattered figures on the lower slopes, just out of Roman missile range. The thousands of starving, weak, exhausted and terrified civilian Mandubii had, as the days wore on, diminished to mere hundreds. Critognatos had watched the poor abandoned souls beginning to eat those among them who had died of exposure or hunger or illness, and had wisely kept his opinion to himself at the looks of sick hatred Cavarinos shot him, though the knowing half-smile on Critognatos’ face spoke clearly of his view of the matter.

But now was not the time to dwell on those poor lost souls and what had been done to them by a foreign force encamped in their city. Food was still becoming all the more scarce, and every day the besieged warriors watched the horizon and waited, desperately.

Too much to hope. But then, what other reason could the Romans have for standing to and pulling their force within their walls entirely? He watched, tense, expectant, trembling slightly.

Cavarinos almost cried as the first wave of horsemen appeared among the trees atop the peaks known locally as Dead Men’s Mountains, beyond the plain and the Roman fortifications crossing it. In a matter of heartbeats, the hillside was flooded with horsemen, gathering like a swarm of ants. The reinforcements!

Even as the cheer went up from the watching army on the walls above him, Cavarinos watched the cavalry moving across the range of hills on some unknown set of orders. Into the gaps that opened came the warriors on foot, filling the hillside with a mass of tiny dark figures. Small groups of horse moved among them, presumably the commanders and nobles. Lucterius would be there somewhere, the hero of the hour to the beleaguered men of Vercingetorix’s army.

His eyes slid, involuntary, back to the sad figures of the starving Mandubians on the slope below. Amid the elation of the besieged, the black spot that corroded the soul was the knowledge that no matter how many men had gathered on that hill, none of it would do the Mandubian refugees any good. Indeed, the moment the reserves made a move to the outer Roman walls, Vercingetorix would order an attack on the inner defences and those people would be little more than an obstacle, pushed out of the way or simply cut down by the army who had supposedly come to free the tribes from oppression.

Curse you Fronto, for not letting the people go. His fingers brushed the pouch that contained the curse tablet. Of course, he knew why the Romans had not done so. Any astute, if cold-blooded, general would have done the same. Somewhere in his heart he hoped that the Romans had at least argued over it before Caesar had essentially condemned them to death. Well, Caesar and Vercingetorix between them, anyway.

Tomorrow there would be a battle.

Not a foray, or a skirmish. Not a cavalry engagement on the move. Nothing like that. Now, Vercingetorix knew he had the numbers. He would not be able to move until the relief force did, but he would be ready to attack immediately thereafter. Hopefully the battle would easily fall in their favour. If so, it might conceivably be the last battle.

Cavarinos reached up to his chest and gripped the dangling figure of Fortuna, the irony of calling upon a Roman god for their destruction not lost upon him.

Chapter 19

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.’

Chapter 20

Fronto felt odd, riding in these circumstances. In previous years, he had eschewed the saddle on most occasions, only calling upon Bucephalus when there were great distances to be eaten up or speed was of the essence. Then, as those few extra years began to make their presence known, he had finally acceded to the nagging of both his centurions and his joints and begun to ride Bucephalus even on a slow march. But still he had never ridden within the army’s fortifications while they were settled. It had seemed the height of laziness.

The system of fortifications around Alesia, however, were so immense in scale and covered such a distance of varying terrain that had he not kept his horse to hand, he would have spent most of the day walking just to exchange words with his peers. And so he kicked the big black animal to a trot as he ascended the slopes of the southern hill upon which Caesar had constructed his camp. To both left and right, the turf-sloped ramparts seethed with activity, men on watch all along the wicker wall — faster to construct than a timber palisade and surprisingly protective from sword and axe blows — and atop the high timber towers. Behind them, in the wide gap between the two walls, centuries of men bustled around under the watchful eyes of their officers, carrying supplies to positions, bringing timber and tools for repair work, handing out rations to those who sat at rest and sweating in the morning sun, even this early. The night’s chill had had little effect on the searing orb that rose the next day, and perspiration had become the norm. Centurions shouted orders, optios batted men’s calves with their poles to instil discipline. The sound of hammering and the buzz of camp life filled the air.

And this was just the open ground between the two defensive lines. The actual camps were busier still with units coming and going on rotations to rest, bathe, repair armour and clean kit. The inner fortification gradually fell away to the left, where it followed the small river along the valley below the oppidum, while the outer line of rampart climbed the hill to the redoubts and camps that commanded the best view of the enemy city. Mere weeks ago, much of this hillside had been heavily wooded, though now the majority of those antique trunks had been cut, sawn, adzed, nailed and roped into the defensive system and the slopes were almost bare, allowing the Romans a clear view of the entire siege area.

The camp of Caesar which towered over the landscape afforded an excellent view of the oppidum and the twin lines of fortifications around it, but the curve of the hill kept the western range that played host to the Gallic reinforcements largely out of sight. The camp was not especially large, despite being home to the Tenth and Eleventh legions, the lion’s share of personnel being distributed on regular rotation along the stretches of rampart to either side of this camp in the same manner as the other garrisons around the oppidum. The camp did not follow the traditional form of such installations, its walls curved to fit with the contours of the hill and as Fronto rode towards the gate — a hive of activity in itself — he could see the figures of officers atop the wall walk, beneath the timber watch tower. One of them, gleaming and with a tell-tale crimson cloak, was clearly Caesar, and Fronto saluted as he approached.

Clopping through the gate, Fronto dismounted and handed the reins to one of the legionaries to take to the stables. Without pause, he climbed the rampart steps and joined Rufio, Caesar and Priscus atop the gate.

‘General.’

‘We were wondering where you’d got to, Fronto. It appears we should expect action this morning.’ The general gestured towards the plain from which Fronto had just ridden. The legate of the Tenth peered down the slope into the shade at the western lea of the oppidum where the sun would not touch the grass for hours yet. A force of several hundred Gauls were busy descending the lower slopes with carts and beasts of burden, approaching the water-filled ditch that had been drawn north to south between the two small rivers.

‘They’re not the big problem Caesar. Varus called me down to the cavalry forts. The Gallic reserve is on the move.’

Caesar pursed his lips. ‘A full deployment?’

‘We can’t be sure yet, general. They’ve lined up a huge cavalry force on the plain, across the river and out of range of our weapons, and a few smaller groups of foot have moved down with them, but the majority of the infantry are still gathered some way behind them on the slopes. It smacks of an attack. Varus wants to know your orders, sir.’

The general remained silent, chewing on his lower lip as he watched the small force of defenders from the oppidum. Within moments, the Gauls reached the water-filled channel and began to tip carts of earth into it, drawing out long planks and posts and creating rickety, dangerous bridges.

‘It would appear that the two forces are hoping to work in concert.’

A horn blared out from the defences on the plain, and after a half dozen heartbeats, artillery began to loose from the ramparts. Most of the shots fell far short of the trench and even the few that managed to find a range close to the targets were sent in such arcs that their destination was more luck than judgement and only one in the first forty or fifty shots actually struck a Gaul. Just as Fronto was about to complain about the artillerists wasting ammunition another horn call ended the attempted barrage.

‘I fear we should have placed the channel and the ramparts closer together. The Gauls will fill in whole sections of the ditch without trouble from us.’

Caesar nodded. ‘Hindsight is always effective. Can you see activity atop the hill, also?’

The officers peered up at Alesia, trying to pick out details in the early morning sun. Finally, Priscus pointed at the western promontory. ‘The concentration of men on the western walls has increased. I’d be willing to put money on a large force gathered inside that end.’

‘Then they will attempt an attack in concert,’ Caesar mused. ‘And it is dangerous to draw too many forces from other areas in preparation, lest this turn out to be a feint that endangers another sector.’ He straightened. ‘Fronto, take the rest of your Tenth out of camp and bolster the defences down on the plain. Rufio’s Eleventh will keep this garrison secure. Send a rider to Antonius at Mons Rea and ask him to send the rest of the Fifteenth in to aid you as well. If both those forces hit on the plain, you could be in for a difficult tussle.’

The general gave his most predatory smile, his face becoming all the more aquiline as he gestured to the left, to the curve of the hill, where they could now see the Gallic cavalry spreading out across the plain. ‘And give Varus my orders. Tell him to take his entire cavalry and smash that force at his earliest convenience. If he can break their cavalry, we can delay any assault from outside and deal with the oppidum’s inhabitants first.’

Fronto nodded and saluted. This was it, then. The Gauls had made the first move at last.

* * * * *

Varus waved his arm and the musician blew a sequence of notes. Behind them, the second wing of cavalry was almost formed up on the flat grass outside the cavalry fortification. Quadratus’ men were gathered into native units and a few regular turmae, each with their standards and musicians to the fore. A whistle from the back confirmed that the entire force was in place, and the commander looked to either side. To the south, across the Osana river — little more than a wide and shallow stream — Volcatius was drawing his own forces into formation, and to the north, roughly the same distance away, Silanus formed up the third wing.

The noise of thousands of horses stamping impatiently and snorting, mixed with the ever-present smell of dung and oiled leatherwork and the shush and clunk of mail and weapons formed a continual symphony that drowned out the hum of bees and the cheerful birdsong that seemed to fill this place on a summer day. Of course, that would end shortly enough anyway. One of the first casualties of battle was the hum of nature, as mammals and birds alike fled the field for safety.

The entire cavalry force was now deployed and moments from being ready. Varus licked his dry lips and looked across the flat ground ahead. A little over a hundred paces away, the river Brennus flowed from south to north, the twin streams that flanked Alesia flowing into it and adding to a flow that was still little more than a glorified brook in itself. Certainly no impediment to cavalry.

Unlike what lay beyond it.

Perhaps half a mile away, across the flat land, Varus could see the gathered swarm of enemy horsemen. Given the mob attitude of the enemy commanders, it was almost impossible to guess at numbers, beyond the fact that they far outstripped his own. The clomping of hooves on the compacted earth announced Quadratus’ arrival at the van.

‘This will be a tough fight.’

Varus nodded.

‘Might I ask where the Germans are?’ Quadratus asked, with the characteristic nervousness the Roman officers generally exhibited when speaking of that dreadful yet effective cavalry unit.

‘I’m holding them in reserve. Every time they’re fielded they put the wind up whoever we face, and they might be useful if things go badly. But since we’re deploying the entire horse in formation, I doubted a thousand blood-hungry and barely-sentient Germans would help matters at this stage.’

Quadratus nodded emphatically. ‘I bet they were pleased to be told to wait.’

‘Not especially, no. One of their officers punched my courier so hard he broke his jaw.’

The two men smiled at one another, and the whistles went up in quick succession left and right, confirming that all three wings were in position and ready.

‘Ready?’

Quadratus nodded again. ‘Ready, sir.’

‘Then let’s show these barbarians how a well-organized force does it.’

At a gesture, the musician called another sequence of notes and the banners waved, all three cavalry wings moving immediately with the oiled machine discipline of the Roman military. By the time the commander reached the low bank of the Brennus and urged his mount down into the chilly, swift flow, the other two wings were closing on an angle and converging with his own. As his horse climbed the west bank of the river and he looked out upon the host arrayed before him, Varus glanced to either side once more. All three wings were coming together now to form one large army. They might not match the numbers of the Gauls, but in terms of tactics and discipline, they were the masters of the field. The front line was perfectly straight and controlled.

The Roman cavalry assembled into their units as the men flooded across the Brennus and Varus watched the enemy, tense, waiting for the calls from the rear to confirm that the entire force had crossed. He felt a ripple of cold air across his neck that raised the hairs, and he raised his hand, somehow knowing what was about to happen.

‘They’re about to charge.’

Quadratus frowned, even as the enemy erupted with a roar and the mass of Gallic horse burst forth, picking up speed as they raced towards the Romans. Varus half smiled. Predictable. They had hoped to catch the Romans while they were still crossing the Brennus, their forces split between two banks. But they would only exhibit such confidence and strength while they believed the Romans to be unprepared. Not confidence, in fact… overconfidence.

‘Sound the charge,’ Varus shouted.

Quadratus frowned. ‘We’re still divided, sir.’

‘Yes. And they think that’ll make us nervous and weak. We need to keep them off guard. If we hit them, they’ll break, so sound the charge.’

The musician blew the call, which was picked up by the various tuba-bearers among the cavalry, and the force started to move forward. Varus allowed his horse to hesitate for a moment, letting the force catch up so that he fell into the perfect straight line with the foremost attackers rather than running ahead. Quadratus had done the same and was now several places to his left as the cavalry launched forth, bypassing the trot and moving from a walk to a canter and then into a gallop at the simple calls from a tuba bearer. The two large forces thundered towards one another, a large part of the Roman cavalry still crossing the river behind and then racing along to catch up with their compatriots, the rebels moving like a tidal wave of muscle and sinew.

Varus clenched his teeth and allowed himself to rise and fall with his horse’s gait, observing the oncoming horsemen with a professional eye. The Gauls knew their Roman opposition well. There was at least an even chance of them breaking, he figured, when faced with unstoppable Rome. That had been why the Gauls rushed their attack while the Romans were crossing — they had not wanted to allow the Romans time to lead a charge of their own.

As he rode, ripping his sword from its scabbard, Varus threw up three quick prayers to Epona, Mars and Fortuna that he had it right. Around him, the horsemen couched their spears for the clash, bringing their shields to face the enemy.

And then the centre of the Gallic line began to fold inwards.

Varus grinned. That was it: the Gaulish horse had caved under the Roman onslaught before they’d even met, just as he’d hoped. Not all of them, mind. He had to give them credit for that. Much of the enemy left wing was intact, and only perhaps half the right had run. Those who had stopped, however, were now turning tail and racing back towards their original position, and perhaps the slopes beyond, where the infantry awaited. If they thought to lead the Romans into the infantry, they would be sadly disappointed, of course. Varus’ men were disciplined and knew what to do. They would break the force and harry them as they fled, but would stop short of the reserves on the hill and then move back to re-form.

The musicians were still periodically blowing the call to charge, and Varus found himself among a large number of Roman cavalry racing close to the heels of the retreating Gauls. He almost whooped with elation as the first of the fleeing enemy arched his back and screamed, the point of a Roman spear slamming through mail, flesh and ribs and into the soft cavity within. The rout would now turn to a slaughter.

In a heartbeat it all changed.

Suddenly, with an efficiency more Roman than Gallic, the retreating Gallic horsemen pulled into narrow lines as they rode in columns through gaps in the force waiting behind them. Varus had no time to shout a warning.

As the enemy horsemen retreated in those narrow columns, their disappearance revealed what had been waiting behind: walls of Gallic spearmen in a passable Roman contra-equitas formation, shields lined up in angled walls to guard against the Roman spears, while their own points jutted out like a deadly hedgepig.

The more enthusiastic of the Roman horsemen slammed into the Gallic infantry, unable to slow due to their elated momentum. Horses reared and screamed, kicking out as they hit the mass of men, bashing gaps in the shield-wall but suffering impalement for both horses and riders all along the bristling hedge of iron points.

The musician was calling the charge to a halt now, at Quadratus’ urgent command.

But it wasn’t over. As the twenty or so Roman horses who had fallen to the contra-equitas flailed and thrashed in agony, the noise of the wounded and dying seemingly filling the air to capacity, row upon row of Gallic archers rose behind the shield-walls and even as they stood, released a cloud of arrows up and over their kin into the Roman ranks. Varus looked this way and that and everywhere his gaze fell, men and horses were dying.

‘Sound the order to fall back,’ he bellowed, and his musician lifted the tuba to his lips just as an arrow thudded into his face, throwing him back in his saddle, dead almost instantly, the instrument falling from spasming fingers. Wrenching his head round in desperation, Varus looked for another musician. How had this happened? Such tactics were unheard of among the Gallic tribes. Then again, plenty of them had spent a season or two fighting among the Roman forces and there would undoubtedly be quick learners among them. But someone in command over there was astute and knew exactly what to expect from the Romans. Outmanoeuvred by a Gaul!

His eyes fell upon another man with a tuba and he bellowed again the order to fall back. This musician took up the call and Quadratus appeared from somewhere unseen, clutching the flights of an arrow that had driven straight through his upper arm, the tip dripping crimson onto his elbow.

‘Where do we re-form?’ the wounded officer hissed through clenched teeth.

Varus heaved in a deep breath. ‘At the river. We can form a healthy line there with the rest of the men, and the bastards can’t spring any more surprises like that on us.’

As if to underline that comment, a second volley of arrows arced up into the air, and the two officers kicked their steeds to speed, racing back east along with their men. Around them, more and more Romans and auxiliaries fell, panicked riderless horses milling this way and that in the chaos, trampling the fallen wounded.

Even as the Roman lines pulled away from the enemy, leaving far too many dead and wounded for comfort, the enemy cavalry came forth again, forming up in the wake of the Roman flight, finishing off those wounded who lay scattered around the ground.

‘They’re coming again any moment,’ Varus shouted, and Quadratus looked over his shoulder, wincing at the pain in his impaled arm as he did so. Sure enough, the enemy were almost in position.

As they neared the river once more, the concentration of Roman cavalry increased exponentially. The entire force would now be across on this bank, and already the musicians were forming up the ranks with calls from their individual commanders. Behind him, Varus could hear the low rumble of the now-pursuing Gallic horse but above that, new sounds caught his attention.

From across the river at the fortifications came the distinctive sounds of battle. The thud and clatter of artillery mixed with the booing calls of the cornicen and the whistles of centurions, all above the rattle and crash and murmur of men fighting. Something was happening there too, then.

Varus turned his horse and lined up with the rest. Next to him, Quadratus took his reins between his teeth and reached around with his right hand, snapping off the arrow close to the skin. Shaking and sweating, he grasped the other side of the shaft, behind the head.

‘Don’t pull it out. You’ll bleed too quickly.’

‘And if I don’t I’ll be too hampered to fight,’ Quadratus said, muffled around the leather reins. Clenching once more, he pulled the arrow free with an unpleasant sucking sound and cast it to the grass. Varus edged his steed closer and undid the pin at his throat, pulling his scarf free and wrapping it around the man’s wounded arm several times and tying it off.

‘Stay alive until you see a medicus.’

‘Well if it’s an order,’ grinned Quadratus, still sweating and pale, the reins falling from his mouth. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We defeat them. Or we die trying.’

Quadratus pointed north with his good arm. ‘Looks like their infantry are using this distraction to flank us. The fortifications are about to be hit from both sides at once.’ Varus looked, and could just see a mass of figures skirting the cavalry battle and heading for the river downstream. It was exactly what they’d hoped to prevent, but the cavalry wings could only deal with one nightmare at a time.

‘Nothing we can do about that, for now. We just have to keep their horse busy and hope the legions can hold the walls.’

* * * * *

Fronto ducked behind the wicker fence as an arrow thrummed past him and thudded into the rear wooden post of the tower. As he rose to the fence top once again, gripping the pilum that had been passed up by the legionary on supply duty inside the defences, two Gauls appeared before him, snarling and shouting. One was armed with a Gallic sword and brought it back for a swing, the other with a spear. Fronto quickly noted the spearman’s position and stepped away from it, ducking again, into the path of the swordsman.

The men of his singulares fought along the wall to either side, Aurelius struggling with a particularly large specimen even now. Fronto had refused Masgava’s demand that he stay back from the wall, citing the need to commit every man if they hoped to hold. Thus the men of his bodyguard had taken position with him on the walls and were fighting like lions.

Even after hours of battle, the Gauls had yet to cotton on to the nature of the Roman defences. The swordsman slashed madly at the wicker, attempting to cut through the apparently flimsy defence and get to the Roman behind, only to find his blade turned easily by the flexible-yet-tough woven fence. As the man staggered back, almost slipping down the sharp incline and into the ‘v’ shaped ditch below, Fronto rose once more and jabbed out with the pilum, stabbing the iron point into the man’s neck — the only exposed flesh between his bronze helmet and tight-linked mail shirt. With a scream the attacker plunged down the treacherous slope, snapping the few remaining sharpened branches that jutted out, most having already come loose though having taken hundreds of Gauls with them on their keen points. The ditch into which he fell was already a mass burial waiting to be covered, almost full to ground level now with corpses, severed limbs, weapons and armour, bloodied timber, shredded pieces of wicker defences and mud, blood and shit. The pungent stink of the charnel pit rose constantly in the warm air to cover the defences in its choking stench.

He’d judged the move right. The swordsman had been unable to penetrate the fence, and had died for his ill judgement. The spear man, however, had thrust his weapon at the fence, roughly where Fronto had previously stood, driving the point with little trouble through the wicker. Had Fronto not moved, he would now be looking down at the spear in his belly. As it was, he turned and grabbed the protruding shaft with his free hand and pulled with every ounce of strength he could muster from battle-tired arms.

The spear came through easily and the surprised warrior gripping it hit the fence face-first. The shock made him loosen his grip and Fronto pulled the entire weapon through the narrow gap and let it roll down the inner slope, where one of the supply soldiers grabbed it and added it to the store of javelins he passed out continually to those who beckoned from the wall. Suddenly unbalanced and weaponless, the Gaul found himself staggering and plummeted back into the ditch. With an angry yell, he rose amid the grisly flesh-and-gore-pool and ripped his sword from his side only to be hit in the face by a scorpion bolt that threw him back and into the second, outer, ditch, which was as yet only half filled with corpses.

To his right Masgava, busy cleaving a climber in two, paused to yell at him. ‘Keep your right arm up when you strike. You’re sagging and your blows are going awry. Fronto gave him a tired shake of the head, but the big Numidian was already moving on to the next Gaul.

A few paces to the left an optio yelled at a legionary. Fronto couldn’t hear the details, but the tirade went unfinished as a lucky strike with a Gallic spear took the optio in the torso and threw him back from the rampart. Fronto glanced around for a moment and saw the junior officer pick himself up and rip the spear from his side, clutching a bleeding hole in his mail, starting to shout more orders even as the capsarii pushed him down onto a stretcher and carried him from the scene.

Three more legionaries arrived from the small reserve units being marshalled in the centre by Reginus, and moved up onto the ramparts to plug the gaps left by the wounded. Fronto hadn’t realised how thin this section had become until the reserves occupied it.

The battle had been raging now for so long he’d lost track of time. He knew that he’d been fighting for several hours when Atenos had appeared from somewhere and demanded that he step back and take a noon meal, else he would lose the strength to fight. He’d done as he was bidden and scoffed down a plate of meat, bread and fruit as though he’d been starved for weeks and had, in a sad acknowledgement of the fact that he was no longer a young man, taken the opportunity for an hour’s rest, in conference with Antonius, before returning to the fray.

That had been perhaps three hours ago. If fact, as Fronto glanced over his shoulder to where an equally brutal struggle was underway at the outer rampart a few hundred paces away, he could see the sun sinking towards the hillside upon which the Gallic relief army had been encamped the previous night.

Almost a whole day!

He couldn’t remember the last time a single engagement had lasted that long. A whole day of constant battle. The body count must be appalling on both sides. The number of men serving between the walls as both reserves and supply-porters had dropped drastically over that time — a telling sign of how many had been lost.

He thought back on the conversation he’d had with Antonius during his hour’s rest. The army’s second most senior officer had sent messengers to his camp at Mons Rea, as well as to Caesar and Labienus, requesting reserves to bolster the defences, but all three men had returned with nothing. The general had put down a blanket order across all his officers. Each sector was the responsibility of the officers assigned to it and they were to hold it with the troops they were given. There would be no calling for reserves from a different sector, in case the Gauls used the move to launch surprise attacks on any weak spots.

Antonius had exploded in anger and ridden off to the general, arguing that it was no use keeping the troops in position to prevent weak spots opening up where there was already one massive weak spot on the plain. Caesar had relented and allowed three more cohorts to be reassigned, but refused any further aid.

And so with ever decreasing numbers the men of the Tenth, Eleventh, Twelfth and Fifteenth had held the walls for most of a day, not even granted time to consider what might be happening out on the plain to the cavalry. Varus would be involved in a brutal fight for his own life, given that he was cut off from the Roman fortifications by the reinforcement rebel infantry who now besieged them.

His attention was brought back to the present by a flurry of arrows — they had begun as clouds sent up en-masse in the morning, but had become sporadic as the hours wore on and the archers became separated from one another and from their leaders, encouraged to stay back by the Roman bowmen and artillerists. The flurry was answered with a Roman volley, accompanied by the crack and thud of hurled iron-tipped bolts and heavy stones from the war machines atop the wooden towers.

A Gallic arrow thudded into the wooden tower post a few feet from Fronto’s head, and the whole structure shook as the ballista atop it launched another rock over into the Gaulish army that seethed on the flat ground below the oppidum. Even back beyond the twin ditches the ground was so strewn with native bodies that little grass or mud could be seen — men who had been crippled or killed by the stake-filled lilia pits or the sharpened branches, embedded iron spikes or the armfuls of caltrops that had been hurled down from the rampart to spike running feet, and others who had fallen to accurate strikes from pila, arrow, sling or scorpion.

‘Legate!’

Fronto turned at the call to see a courier racing across the grass towards him, saluting as he ran.

‘What?’

‘Compliments of commander Antonius, sir. He asks that you move a third of your men across to the outer rampart to aid in a concerted push.’

Fronto blinked. ‘Is he mad? I can’t spare a third of my men.’

The courier looked distinctly uncomfortable, and closed his eyes as if trying to repeat something from memory. ‘The commander said you’d argue, sir. He told me to tell you “I can end this in half an hour, now give me the troops”, sir.’

Fronto frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound like Antonius.’

‘Respectfully, I cut out some of the worst language, sir, and he called you something I cannot bring myself to repeat to an officer.’

Fronto laughed. ‘Now that sounds like Antonius. Alright, tell him to make room. They’ll be across shortly.’

As the courier saluted and ran off, Fronto prepared himself for trouble and marched along the rampart, ducking stray arrows and dodging lucky blows, until he reached Atenos, two towers south. As he moved, Masgava and Quietus fell in to protect him, the latter running to his left, holding up his big shield to protect them both from stray missiles.

‘Centurion?’

‘Sir?’

‘Have your officers mark every third man and then pull them off the walls and send them over to Antonius. He needs them for something.’

Atenos frowned, ignoring the Gaul he had by the throat dangling over the drop beyond the fence. ‘We need them for something too, sir.’ Half turning, he head-butted the struggling Gaul and dropped the broken form back among the enemy.

‘I know that. Do it anyway.’

As Atenos, still with an expression of disapproval, snapped out the orders to his optio and the two men began marching along the rampart in opposite directions tapping men on the shoulder, Fronto staggered, a stray arrow passing close enough to take a nick out of his earlobe and draw a hot, bloody line across his neck. Masgava fixed Quietus with the most malevolent of glares and the bodyguard hoisted his shield higher, being sure to cover his legate from further strikes. Grabbing his scarf and wiping away the blood, Fronto looked down at the legionaries from the Tenth stepping away from the wall and then across at the outer rampart where a similar fight continued.

Whatever Antonius had in mind, he’d better make it work, and do it quickly. Night would descend all too soon. This was starting to look a little too much like a repeat of Gergovia for comfort.

* * * * *

Lucterius was exultant. As his horse shouldered its way through the press and he brought his heavy blade down on one of the Roman auxiliaries — a Remi perhaps? — he almost laughed. The Romans were beaten. Oh they fought on like lions, as one was always to expect with the legions, but their cavalry were fighting for their very existence now. Hours of combat had passed, with the Roman commanders repeatedly sallying forth in waves and breaking the Gallic morale, only to find that Lucterius and his companions could all-too-easily pull things back together, and turn the tables on their enemy, often accompanied by attacks from those bands of archers still present on the field. And so it had been all day, the Romans charging and the tribes pulling back accordingly under the onslaught, and then the rebel horse making their own brutal attack, only to see the Romans fall back under the pressure and regroup elsewhere. From the point of view of Toutatis, looking down upon the war, the cavalry battle must had looked like the waves of the sea, repeatedly crashing upon the shore and then ebbing back as the sand dried, only to see the next wave coming to soak it.

But the important fact was that the rebels would win. Although the attrition of this unpleasant engagement was wearing down both forces at a surprisingly equal rate, Lucterius and his people outnumbered the Roman cavalry by a high enough margin that the outcome was a foregone conclusion.

As he fought his way to the edge of the latest clash, he allowed himself a moment to gaze upon the other battle upon which today hinged. The Roman defences were still holding, but they were almost submerged beneath a sea of good tribal warriors and their future was already written in thick, oozing blood. The fact that, from what he’d heard, the Romans weren’t even sending support from their other camps to aid the beleaguered defenders could only speed their demise.

It would be over tonight, then. That sector of defences would break, the two forces would join up, and then the Romans would die, for the men of the tribes would not relent with the sinking of the sun. The Romans might not like to fight at night, but now the tribes had victory in their grasp and they would not pause, even for a moment.

A new noise entered the aural tapestry of the battle, and Lucterius frowned, peering at the Roman ramparts as he tried to discern what it was. Even at this distance it was evident that the Roman defenders atop the walls had suddenly increased in both number and voracity. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. At this stage, many hours after the first blow, they should be tiring, unable to rally like this. Unless something had given them heart?

There it was again: that strange insistent chord somewhere in the din. What was it?’

He felt a sense of rage begin deep in his belly and spread out to fill him entire as he recognised finally the booing horn calls of the damned German cavalry. He was distracted for a moment as a Roman auxiliary suddenly appeared in the press and made a lunge for him. Only half paying attention, Lucterius blocked the blow high and then swept down, his sharpened blade carving across the enemy’s face and almost separating the top half of his head.

Ignoring the gurgling, dying man, he turned back to the distant walls. His heart lurched as he realised that a section of the mass attack on the rampart had been pushed back through concentrated assault by missiles and artillery and then the increased manpower at the walls. Even as he realised why, the first ranks of the savage head-hunting riders appeared in the opening, racing out into the open ground beyond the fight.

No!

The infantry at the walls attempted to close the gap and prevent the sally of the Germans, but they were simply unable to stop the flood of horsemen at a charge, their blood up, having been frustrated by a day’s inactivity and finally given the opportunity to deal death. Lucterius could imagine what was happening at the gate.

And then the Germans were hurtling across the open ground. For a moment, Lucterius was forced to pay attention to another auxiliary intent on taking his life and as he swiftly dispatched the man, he turned back to see the thousand-strong German unit halted, forming into a tight unit. This was new. The few times he had seen — to his detriment — the Germanic cavalry in action, they had been a loose mob of screaming lunatics. Cohesion seemed unlikely. And yet there they were, forming up.

His heart began to pound as he watched the Germans start to move, picking up speed at an almost unbelievable rate and racing towards the fray like the avenging fury of Gods. Wicked gods!

He had only heartbeats. What could the enemy do? They might be savage individually, but the field was currently a swamped mix of Roman and rebel, thrashing around in a disorganised mass. If the Germans hit them — which seemed to be their intention — they would as likely kill as many Romans as rebels. He almost laughed. Releasing the Germans was no guarantee of aid to the Roman force. It was like letting a fox loose in a pen with two chicken coops. Only the Gods knew which army would take the brunt of this attack.

A honking and then a shrill whine rang out from the west, and Lucterius frowned for only a moment before his eyes widened. No!

One of the rebel signallers had called the orders to pull back and form up. The idiot!

Lucterius swung his horse, trying to find a man with a horn to countermand that order, but the press was too chaotic. Even as he felt the panic rise, he noticed that already the concentration of men around him was becoming more and more Roman as his own men pulled back from the fray and formed into a block at the call.

Lucterius tried to shout, but an opportunistic Roman appeared in his way, swung a cavalry sword and hit him hard. The mail shirt prevented most of the damage from the blade’s edge, but he felt two or three ribs crack and was thrown back in his saddle. Recovering as best he could, he fought desperately for a hundred heartbeats, struggling, but eventually managing to fight back and kill his attacker, only to find himself face to face with another who he killed with four strokes, taking a ragged wound to the back of his hand in the process. He was almost alone among the enemy now, though close to the edge of the fight. Urgently, he pulled out from the press and into the open.

The scene that greeted him sent a flood of horror through him, though he’d been expecting it in his heart.

At the sight of a clearly-rebel force gathering under a banner, the Germans had changed course en-masse and charged them. Even as Lucterius moved out away from the Roman horde who were busy rallying to kill the enemy among them, he saw the Germans hit the block of rebel horse.

When he had been a boy, his people had played a game in the street where a wooden ball was rolled at six wooden sticks standing on end, the objective being to collapse all six in one roll — a Roman game, sickeningly, that had come to the Cadurci through traders. And now he was watching the same game carried out live, the ball a tight-knit force of slavering Germans, the sticks a terrified block of Gallic horse.

The rebels exploded as the Germans hit them with seemingly unstoppable momentum.

Lucterius felt a cold stone of despair sink into his belly as he watched his men fall to pieces, standards cast down, nobles unable to control their men no matter how loud they shouted. A concentrated area of the block was savagely cut down by the newly-arrived force, but the bulk of the rebels were lost without even a blow landing. Terror flooded the horsemen, leaping from beast to beast and gripping the heart of each rider, widening his eyes, bringing forth the cold sweat, and sending him racing, as fast as his tired horse could carry him, for the hills and the camp atop them.

Lucterius tried to call things to order. He saw a musician — the moron who’d called the formation, perhaps? — but before he could shout to him, one of the Germans was there, ripping the man’s horn from him — along with half a severed arm — and then crushing his skull with the crumpled instrument.

What had been a foolish call by a foolish man quickly turned into a panic, and before Lucterius’ dismayed eyes, that panic slipped into a rout.

The few of his men still among the Romans were no longer fighting for freedom or victory. They were fighting to escape. The Romans had seen what had happened, too, and numerous horn calls went up as heart flooded back into the beleaguered cavalry.

Lucterius watched as the spearmen and archers, who had remained on the periphery and made their mark every time the Romans came too near, were suddenly swamped by auxiliary horsemen. In the time it took to blink, the sure victory of the rebel force had been turned into a panicked, ignominious flight. Only a few hundred of his men, rallying to banners, remained to fight, but they would not last long against the Roman cavalry in those numbers. Most of the men were even now racing up the slopes towards the relative safety of the relief army’s camp.

Lucterius looked around himself, hardly able to believe what had happened. Then, with no other option barring certain — if glorious — death, he kicked his horse to speed and made for the slope to the camp. He never looked back, but he did not need to. His acute hearing noted the gradual shift in calls. The carnyxes that had been urging the infantry on against the Roman fortifications were now calling the calls of defeat: rally, withdraw, fall back. The Roman horns, with a distinctly higher pitch, had changed too. He didn’t know those calls, but the melodies went from sad, discordant ones to uplifting, encouraging tunes. It didn’t take a genius to work that out.

They had failed. A whole day. A battle the likes of which the tribes had never seen, and planned with the most cunning strategies, and it had failed. Even now, the rebels would be falling back to their oppidum or camp, depending upon which side of the fortifications they stood. The armies had not managed to link up and the Romans would now be able to shuffle their forces around and repair the damage.

And it would take time to bring the reluctant leaders of the relief force around to the idea of another attempt. Likely a day or more of marshalling their forces, no matter the logic in forcing the point. The momentum would be lost in hesitation.

Failure.

It would be easy enough to blame the Germans. After all, they had had just such effects more than once on this campaign. But the truth of the matter was that, had the two armies remained mixed, the Germans would have been an unknown quantity, as dangerous to Rome as to the tribes. What had been the true cause of the failure had been one man with a horn.

He found himself hoping that the culprit was that poor fool with a missing arm and a bent horn jammed in his brain.

* * * * *

Cavarinos heaved in ragged breaths as he struggled up the slope nursing his arm, which had been dislocated during the last press and had caused him agony to pop back into the socket with the help of a nearby warrior. All around him, the dejected warriors of Vercingetorix’s army returned to the oppidum with a feeling of loss and hopelessness.

They had been so very close to breaking the defences. Indeed, in that last quarter hour, when the Romans had thinned out their numbers, small forays had actually made it across the fence and into the Roman fortifications. But then the attack of the reserve army had faltered and crumbled, and the Romans had been free to redeploy their men, strengthening the inner rampart. Perhaps hundreds of warriors had been lost inside, captured and killed by the Roman defenders, as the king had come to the inescapable conclusion that the day was lost and had the call for retreat blown. The various leaders of the tribes had echoed the call, and the attackers had pulled back from the ramparts, making their way back up the hill under the occasional shot from the Roman artillery.

Defeat!

His already failing spirits hit new lows as he spotted his brother picking his way among the dejected warriors. Cavarinos closed his eyes, steadied his breathing and counted to eight slowly.

‘Why did you sound the retreat?’ snapped Critognatos, shoving his brother roughly in the recently-dislocated shoulder and sending waves of pain through him.

‘Because we’d lost, you idiot,’ he replied just as peevishly. ‘Better to preserve our men than fight a lost cause.’

‘Bollocks. We were almost there. If we’d got more men across the fence, we’d have swamped them and won the day. You pulled the men back on the cusp of victory!’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ snarled Cavarinos. ‘We’d failed. Anyway, it was the king who called the retreat, not me.’

‘He doesn’t do things like that without you or his cousin telling him to. That’s why he keeps you around.’ Critognatos brandished his still-naked blade angrily. ‘I’m beginning to regret his investiture as leader of this army. He’s almost as big a coward as you!’

Cavarinos snorted. ‘Piss off and find someone else to insult. I don’t have the patience. It’s time to lick our wounds and rally. There’ll be another day.’

His brother simply sneered. ‘We should rally now and charge back. They won’t be expecting us again so soon, and the sun is setting. We could pull victory from the jaws of defeat.’

‘Just stop talking,’ Cavarinos snapped. ‘I get sick of the sound of your belligerent yapping. You’re like an overgrown kitten who thinks he’s a lion.’

‘And you are a pointless, womanish coward.’

‘Piss off.’

Cavarinos’ world exploded into a cloud of white hot pain as his brother suddenly grabbed him by the bad arm and yanked, pulling the shoulder partially out again. Despite of the agony, acting entirely on impulse, Cavarinos swung round, his good arm connecting with his brother’s cheek in a powerful right hook. Critognatos staggered back and his feet slipped from under him, leaving him rolling several paces back down the slope.

Cavarinos clutched his ruined arm and hobbled over to a nearby tree, setting himself against it. That he’d fixed himself once without breaking his arm or collar bone had been a surprise, and his entire body ached from the pain, his eyes dry from the seemingly endless tears he’d already cried. Preparing himself, he pushed the joint carefully, slowly, against the bark, slowly turning and extending his arm to provide the best angle.

With a flood of pain that eclipsed any wound he’d ever received, the joint clicked back, though an extra, new, pain suggested that he might have chipped a bone doing it. His eyes almost blinded with tears of pain, he turned to march on, only to see Critognatos bearing down on him angrily, his nose awash with blood, crimson-tinted sword in hand.

Through the flood of pain, Cavarinos tried in vain to draw his sword as his brother broke into a run, blade raised for a strike. Cavarinos was fairly sure he’d have died there and then had not half a dozen other Arverni rushed over and restrained the furious noble. Cavarinos watched through tears and half-interest as the big man was held back, spluttering curses, his face purple with rage.

‘This is not over!’ Critognatos snarled as he stopped struggling.

Cavarinos sighed as he turned and hobbled on up the slope. That was for certain…

Chapter 21

Fronto stood atop the outer rampart, feeling the cool night breeze rippling across his features, the slight chill cleansing and cathartic after a day filled with searing heat and the sick-sweet smell of death and charring meat, clearing the defences of the Gallic dead and burning the Roman bodies. A night and a day had passed since the attack with no sign of movement from the enemy reserve camp, nor from the oppidum. The Gaulish bodies had been cleared from the ditches by repeated Roman sorties and piled in the open land beyond the furthest hazards, where they were distant enough that their stink was muted and they would cause an extra obstacle to attackers, at maximum effective missile range. Indeed, the ditches had been cleared of all refuse — barring the water channel that had been filled in with cartloads of earth — and replanted with deadly points.

Priscus passed across the flask of watered wine, ready-mixed back in the prefect’s tent, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘I was surprised to see you at the wall yesterday.’

‘All hands needed,’ Fronto replied. ‘It’s was hectic, to say the least.’

‘You’re going to give your singulares a heart attack, you know?’

Fronto turned a curious look on his friend and Priscus chuckled. ‘You were busy fighting, so you never noticed. I was a sensible creaky old bugger and stayed down in the clear overseeing the resupply. And every time I looked up at your section I saw one of your men leaping around madly trying to keep the enemy from getting near you.’

‘They failed, then.’

‘Hardly. You’d have been swamped two or three times if your lads hadn’t had your back. I’d say you owe them a bonus after this.’

Fronto sighed. ‘You know me, Gnaeus. I give it everything I’ve got. No competent soldier could do less.’ He leaned on the fence top and his voice lowered conspiratorially so that it wouldn’t carry to the nearest sentries along the wall. ‘In confidence, Gnaeus, I think I’m starting to lose the heart for this, though. Do you realise there are men fighting us now who were still playing with stick games and starting to think about girls when we followed the Helvetii into this gods-forsaken land.’

Priscus gave him an odd look, and Fronto shrugged. ‘I used to think this place would be a nice place to settle when things are over, but I’m starting to think that I’ll never be able to walk Gallic soil without thinking of all the children I’ve put under it.’

‘Gods but you can be a morbid bastard at times, Fronto.’

‘I’m done after this one, Gnaeus. Time to raise the kids and maybe make a few denarii importing wine or something.’

‘You? The only place you’ll import wine is into your mouth. You’d be broke in a week!’

Fronto turned a faint smile on his friend. ‘Tell me you haven’t thought about it. We’re not young men anymore.’

‘Yes, but you’ve got Lucilia and the boys to drag you away. This is my family and has been for decades. I’ll die in a mail shirt, and I’m comfortable with that.’

‘And you call me morbid!’

‘You’d better not bloody retire,’ came a voice from back down the turf slope and the two men turned to see Palmatus, arms folded, behind them. ‘I’d have to look for another job, and there’s nothing else this interesting that pays half as well.’

Fronto rolled his eyes. Privacy was a thing of the past since his singulares had vowed never to leave him alone. Palmatus jogged up the slope, leaving Aurelius and Celer at the bottom, and joined Fronto at the other side, covering his left flank.

‘Shouldn’t you two be getting some shut-eye at your age,’ the former legionary grinned.

Priscus gave him a sour look. ‘There’s about half a decade between us, I reckon, you knob-end.’

Palmatus laughed easily and Fronto sighed. ‘This is the only thing I’ll really miss, though. Times like this with irritating knob-ends like you two.’

Priscus gave him a playful punch in the arm that he probably thought hurt less than it actually did and the three men folded their arms and leaned on the fence top, looking out over the defences, towards the hill upon which the Gallic reserve were camped.

‘Do you two notice anything different?’ Palmatus said quietly and evenly.

The two men frowned into the darkness. ‘No. All peaceful.’

‘Yes. Too peaceful. Where’s all the life on that hill? And it’s dark. Where are their camp fires?’

Fronto straightened. ‘Ah shite!’ he muttered with feeling.

Priscus turned and looked around the space between the walls until he spotted the duty signaller, lounging around on a barrel and looking bored.

‘Cornicen? Call the alarm. Stand to. All units.’

The man paused only a moment, aware of the exalted rank of the man giving the order, and then stood, taking a deep breath and blowing the calls through his cornu with all his might. Barely had the first refrain echoed around the ramparts before Fronto saw them.

No lining up on the plain this time. No cavalry manoeuvres. The enemy reserve force was coming with its eyes set solely on the walls, on foot and carrying ladders, grapples and all manner of bulky goods to fill in the ditches and allow easy crossing. Among them came large units of archers and slingers. The enemy flooded from the trees and across the mile of flat, open land like a plague.

It was eerie, watching the flood of Gauls moving through the night, charging into battle in odd silence. Then, as the single cornicen’s call was picked up by the musicians of the four legions responsible for this section, the enemy knew they’d been seen and burst into life with a pugnacious roar.

‘That’s it, then,’ Fronto sighed and turned, looking out over the gap between the ramparts, where men ran this way and that preparing to hold the walls, calls from the camps on the hills at either side urging the men there to fall in and man the palisades. Sure enough past them, beyond the inner fence and the defences below it, past the water-filled ditch and the scrub, up beyond the green and grey slope, the oppidum was bursting into life. Dying-bovine sounds echoed from the carnyxes within and flames appeared on the walls. ‘The reserve force will be here in a matter of heartbeats, but Vercingetorix’s army will be down joining in the fun in a quarter of an hour or so, too.’

In preparation for an onslaught Palmatus, Aurelius and Celer ran up to Fronto, the latter pair’s shields held protectively out. The wicker fence was excellent at stopping a blade’s edge, and made most piercing attacks difficult, but still a lucky arrow or spear could penetrate it, and the Gauls had learned the strength of the Roman defences quite well a day or so back.

As the cohorts began to appear on the hillsides, pouring out of the camps and moving down to help man the defences on the plain, the Gallic reserves reached the piles of their own stinking dead. In a shot that deserved a medal, one of the artillerists in the towers struck the first man to hurdle the pile of corpses, the iron bolt smashing a hole through the man’s chest and knocking him back down among the heaps of his former compatriots. As if taking their cue from that single shot, the artillerists all along the ramparts opened up, the twangs, thuds, thumps and rattles coming in an almost constant rhythm, the fence and tower posts shaking with each launch all along the line, the ground vibrating and small trickles of dust and gravel shuddering and rolling from the rampart.

The Gauls came on heedless of their losses which, though gruesome, were little more than a gnat bite to the army as a whole. The few small units of archers and slingers stationed among the legions rose and began to loose their shots, their actions echoed by the vastly superior number of missile troops outside the walls. The first exchanges were wild and largely fruitless on both sides as each force spent time trying to find their range. Then, just as the Roman archers were starting to pick off their opposite numbers, the enemy finally reached a comfortable range and the exchanges began for real. Fronto and Priscus ducked as the first cloud of enemy arrows swept the top of the fence. Within sight of their position alone, along the rampart beneath three towers, Fronto saw two legionaries and an archer thrown back, pierced and bloody. A centurion he didn’t recognise reached the wall nearby, using his vine cane to direct two men carrying a score of pila. Fronto opened his mouth to tell the man to duck, but as he did so a sling bullet smacked into the centurion’s temple with the dull bong of an old bell, crumpling the bronze helm inwards so deep that the man’s eye burst. As the crippled or dead officer toppled from the rampart, the two legionaries dropped their bundle of pila and ran, ducking, for the cover of the fence.

‘Grab a shield,’ shouted Fronto, and one of the legionaries grasped one of the numerous spares that lay face up on the turf slope. The other moved to follow suit, then his back arched stiffly as the wicker weave of the fence parted slightly with a rustle. The man turned, trying in disbelief to see the shaft protruding from his spine. Then, with an odd sigh, he collapsed and slid down the slope, where he lay face down, shaking with nerve damage. Fronto risked a look over the parapet, Celer lifting his shield to help cover his commander. Already, under the cover of their archers, the reserve foot were casting their brush and timber and the like into the ditches to allow for easier, safer, crossing. Still, all along the defences running Gauls fell screaming as their feet found hidden dangers — a sharpened stake, a metal prong or a caltrop. Yet the flood came on.

A honking noise announced the approach of the second attack from the oppidum and Fronto turned, an arrow seeking his brain thudding instead into Aurelius’ raised shield, the point scraping a painful line across the bodyguard’s forearm.

‘I’ve got this, Priscus yelled over the rising noise of battle. ‘You go take command of the inner line before they hit.’

Fronto nodded and ran for the opposite defences, his singulares forming on him as he moved, the rest of the bodyguard unit freshly arrived with Masgava at the head.

* * * * *

Priscus looked back and forth along the wall, noting the somewhat diminished number of legionaries and archers upon it. Fresh cohorts were even now running across the open ground to take up position on one rampart or the other, newly arrived from the Mons Rea and Gods’ Gate camps. As the legionaries at the fence hunkered behind their shields and the archers picked off every attacking Gaul they could sight, Priscus watched a century of legionaries arrive at his section and begin to distribute along the wall at the commands of a man with an optio’s staff. Their shields bore the ‘XII’ of the Twelfth legion, come down from Mons Rea under Antonius’ command. Priscus frowned at the sight as the optio settled his men into position and ordered them to keep their shields up and wait for the missiles to slow.

‘Where’s your centurion?’ Priscus shouted.

‘Died six towers north yesterday, sir,’ the optio replied wearily.

‘And you’ve not been given the centurion’s crest?’

‘Had no time to arrange things and get confirmed by the legate yet, sir.’

Priscus nodded his understanding. ‘Good man. Get to it.’

The optio saluted, moving along the wall with his men and Priscus found himself standing next to a soldier of not more than eighteen summers and sighed. Perhaps Fronto was right — they seemed to get younger every year. The legionary looked across at Priscus nervously though, to give him credit, the nerves may well have been more due to the proximity of such a senior officer than to the coming onslaught. After all, the lad had survived the previous fight.

‘Lean into the shield,’ Priscus said.

‘Sir?’

‘You’re holding it out like it might bite you. Lean into it. Get your shoulder up against the top, plant your leading leg.’ He paused at the look on the legionary’s face. ‘The left, man, the left!’ What was this man’s training officer doing with his time? ‘Plant your leading leg a foot from the fence and wedge the bottom of the shield against your shin.’

The legionary did as he was told, the resulting position leaving him almost entirely covered by the shield, the curved board wedged tightly against him.

‘Now anything that hits you will be blocked solidly. If you wave it around like a fairy any hit you take will just knock it back against you and probably break your pretty young face.’

The soldier nodded and shuffled his leg.

‘I know. It’s uncomfortable and it might bruise you. But it’s better than being spitted by a mad bastard with braided hair and a pathological hatred of Romans.’

Priscus took a quick look over the fence top once again and noted how much closer they were now to being under attack from the infantry. The Gauls had filled in one of the ditches entirely and had thrown rough hacked planks across the area they knew to be full of lilia pits, spikes and other unpleasantness. They were almost close enough to smell, one ditch away from a full assault. The Roman archers and artillerists were doing a sterling job picking them off as they moved forward, and already hundreds lay dead along the line, their bloody bodies adding to the potential hurdles for their compatriots.

Somewhere back among the shadowy mass beyond the outer ditch and defences, Priscus caught sight of a flicker of flame.

‘Fire arrows!’ he bellowed, and turned to look back down at the men inside the fortifications. ‘Barrels and buckets ready. Form details now.’

Leaving them to their business, he turned back in time to see fires leaping to life every few dozen paces along the length of the defences, from Mons Rea to the foothills below Caesar’s camp. Two men by each of the blazes began to dip their wadded arrows into the dancing fire until they caught fully, then turned, drew and released in fluid moves that sent dazzling golden arcs across the inky night.

They were good. Priscus had to give them that. The first few shafts thudded into the wicker fence and into the timber posts of the watchtowers.

‘They’re serious this time, sir,’ shouted the optio as he used his gladius to cut through the shaft of a burning missile lodged in a tower post and then stamped out the flame on the rampart walk.

Priscus nodded. ‘They were serious enough last time, but now they’ve got the measure of the defences.’ Across the ground-works, the Gauls were bringing forward wicker shields on stands, much like small portable versions of the Roman fence, and propping them in front of the fire archers, protecting them from counter attack.

‘When did the Gauls get so bloody cunning, sir?’

Priscus cast a weary smile at the optio. ‘Over six years of us teaching them by example, I’d guess. Watch out!’

A flaming shaft clanged off the optio’s bronze-clad brow and ricocheted into the camp’s interior. The junior officer reached up, stunned, and felt the dent in his helmet. ‘For the love of Juno…’

‘Keep your head down,’ advised Priscus, his gaze slipping to the crowd beyond the wall again. The twin ditches were now almost full of bundles of kindling and brush, simple enough for a man to cross. ‘Here they come. Get ready, lads. Shields to the fore, braced. Save your strikes for when they’re open.’

With a wicked grin, Priscus turned to look back down the slope. ‘Have we pitch?’ he yelled to the nearest supply officer. The centurion frowned. ‘There might be some here somewhere, sir. What with all the timber in the defences, we’re not putting it on display.’

Priscus nodded. ‘Understood. Find it. Have the jars distributed to each of the officers commanding on the wall.’

The centurion saluted, grabbed three of his men and ran off in search of the pitch. The optio was looking at him in bewilderment.

‘They think they’re clever,’ Priscus explained, ‘but they haven’t thought about how they’ve filled the ditches with kindling to climb over. The stuff they’ve used would go up a treat, especially with a little help.’

The optio’s eyes bulged. ‘Sir, that’s incredibly dangerous so close to the wicker walls.’

‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained, optio. Let’s make their approach hotter than a whore’s crotch on a summer night!’

The junior officer grinned, a hint of madness entering his eyes.

A clunk drew Priscus’ attention, and he looked back to see the top of a ladder hit the fence. Taking a deep breath, the prefect crouched and grabbed one of the spare shields, hauling it up from the turf and sweeping it round to the front as he advanced on the fence again. The first Gallic head appeared at the top, a gleaming iron helmet with twin black feathers jutting from the crown as he climbed into view. Priscus waited patiently, sword arm drawn back, elbow bent, until the man’s face appeared, and then jabbed forward, shield turned aside to allow the blow, the slender, tapering tip of his gladius smashing into the man’s face and through the nasal cavity, into the space within.

With the instinct born of so many years of service, he quickly jerked his arm back before the man fell away bubbling, in order to make sure his blade did not become lodged. To either side, more ladders hit the wall top, and the legionaries were suddenly embroiled in a fight for survival all along the rampart. Priscus noted with satisfaction the legionary bracing his shield as he’d been instructed, despite the several bloody lines the bronze rim had cut in his shin.

A second man appeared over the fence top, this one bare-headed.

Priscus leaned back, pulled up his shield and held it horizontal, waiting for the man’s eyes, and then slammed forward, smashing the rim into the Gaul’s face at brow level. There was an audible crack and the man disappeared backwards into the press, howling in agony.

Readying himself for the next attack, Priscus felt something amiss and looked down.

The shaft of an arrow protruded a mere hand’s-width from his gut, barely the flights on show. The cloth and leather and mail around the shaft were sizzling and blackened from the fire they’d extinguished on entry. He blinked and winced as he moved, confirming that the shaft had passed right through, the tip resting against his spine.

‘Ah, bollocks.’

The young legionary, his attention drawn by the curse, stared in horror. Priscus gave him a savage grin, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and running down to his chin.

‘And that, soldier, is why you keep the shield in front of you and braced.’

‘Sir!’ the man shouted and had to duck a sharp jab from the wall.

‘Capsarius?’ Priscus managed before his knees buckled and he found himself on the wall walk. As he let the sword and shield fall away forgotten, the slope claimed him and he was suddenly rolling down the bank into the busy supply zone. As every thump and rotation drove the shaft inside him into new nooks and crannies, shredding his innards, he recognised that he was now beyond the help of any capsarius. He rolled to a halt on the mud-churned flat ground.

His wild eyes, filled now with a painful blurring, noted two things: a medicus rushing his way, and two men carrying an earthenware jar very carefully. He held up a shaking, bloodied hand to the medicus.

‘No time. Leave me a coin and go find someone you can help.’ The medicus narrowed his eyes, briefly assessing the prefect’s condition, and then nodded, folded a silver sestertius into Priscus’ hand and then ran off. Priscus lay still, feeling his life ebbing with increasing pace like a horse desperate to reach the finish line. All he could do without spasming was to turn his head and so that was what he did, but he couldn’t see much more than the sky, dancing with glowing sparks and embers, and the night-stained turf bank. He concentrated, gritting his teeth against the pain. He could hear grunting that wasn’t him and which he ascribed to the two legionaries with the jar. Then there was a clunk and a thud. A pause gave way to a blattering noise and then, after another long moment: a roar that sounded like the most monstrous lion in the world as the ditch went up.

Priscus closed his eyes and coughed up more blood, listening to the sounds of Gauls dying in his blaze. He grinned, lips blood-slick and dark against a bleached face. ‘Ah, Fronto,’ he murmured to the empty night air. ‘Told you. In the armour just like I said. Always knew I would.’

His arms were almost too weak to lift, but he managed to push the flat disc of the coin under his tongue and then let his arm fall.

‘Come on, then boatman. You’re arseing late!’

* * * * *

Fronto staggered back, a thrown spear ripping two of the hanging leather pteruges from his shoulder and scoring an angry line across his bicep. Cursing, he almost lost his footing and toppled from the rampart top, struggling to keep his feet. The beleaguered Romans had been hard pressed at the inner defences throughout the last couple of hours, the Gauls from the oppidum launching a concerted attack on the entire length of the fence. But in the past quarter hour the entire struggle had become considerably more difficult. In the usual bright moonlight that was the norm of the season, it had been almost like fighting in daylight but then, as the musician called the last watch of the night, the sky had clouded over in a matter of heartbeats and the moon had been submerged beneath a thick blanket of cloud. In moments the battlefield had plunged into unfathomable darkness and now it was exceedingly difficult to see anything beyond a few paces. The Gauls were still launching fire arrows at the fence and towers, and the streaks of gold hurtling towards the rampart effectively night-blinded the Romans and Gauls alike, leaving them flailing.

Recovering with a hiss at the sharp pain, Fronto rushed back to the fence in time to catch a short, wiry Gaul hauling himself over the top. Pulling his arm back, the legate stabbed forward, jamming his blade into the man’s shoulder, close to the neck, driving deep into his chest and yanking sharply back out to retrieve his sword before the man fell away, screaming, into the ditch below. Another figure rose next to him and flicked out with a blade, but Masgava was there, hacking off the man’s hand at the wrist so that both it and the sword it held fell to the walkway and rolled off down the ramp. The screaming man stared at the stump until the big Numidian casually pushed him back over the fence into the mass of flesh below.

Fronto glanced right to see his singulares fighting like demons, and then left to spy the same, along with a tall, spindly legionary who took a heavy axe blow to the chest so hard that it simply carved a trench in the man’s torso, shredding the mail shirt and driving the links in through the flesh.

Another Gaul appeared at the wall and Masgava stepped in before Fronto could deal with him, slamming one of the twin razor-sharp blades he held into the man’s chest and then cleanly severing the head with the other, kicking the falling bloody orb away from the walkway. Palmatus took three steps, crossing the rampart top to join Fronto, lifting his battered and misshapen legionary shield in response to some sixth sense in time to catch an arrow meant for the legate.

‘This is getting bloody ridiculous,’ he shouted at his employer. ‘We need more men.’

Fronto nodded. ‘I know.’

‘An entire stretch of the wall between towers is held by you and your own singulares, you know that?’ Palmatus pointed at the body of the lanky legionary, whose killer was now locked in mortal combat with Aurelius. ‘He was the last regular on this stretch.’

‘I’ll go see Antonius.’

Palmatus nodded and made to follow.

‘No. You stay here and keep the wall safe. I’ll be fine down there.’

His bodyguard commander gave him a hard look, but finally nodded and turned to take on the next of the interminable tide of yelling warriors clambering over the fence.

Fronto took a deep breath and carefully picked his way down the turf bank, his knee threatening to give, the bank slick with blood and boot-churned mud. As he slid the last few feet and righted himself, he looked around in the near darkness until he spotted the standards glittering in the light of the torches. Antonius’ command post, three towers down. Gritting his teeth, Fronto jogged across the churned grass, past scurrying legionaries carrying piles of equipment and capsarii lugging stretchers — some filled, some empty — back and forth. There seemed to be considerably fewer centurions and optios now shouting and directing things in the open space. The outer wall seemed to be in just as much trouble as the inner one, and Fronto noted as he ran that there were at least three places in plain sight where a determined Gaul could force access if they’d known.

Antonius’ command post was little more than two trestle tables, one covered with wax tablets and a platter of half-eaten meat and bread, the other with a rough model of this sector’s defences dotted with wooden markers representing cohorts and supply stations. The tables were surrounded by torches on posts jammed into the ground in a ring, providing light and warmth. Six tall poles stood ready to take a small leather pavilion if the weather suddenly turned wet, which seemed unlikely, the gleaming standards of two legions within their bounds. Antonius himself stood with three tribunes in deep discussion, a number of couriers on hand to carry messages and run errands as required.

Fronto marched past the outer ring of Antonius’ own singulares unit, who gave him only a cursory glance as he approached and nodded their recognition. Antonius looked up at his approach and agreed something with an officer, who hurried off about some business. Another of the tribunes started to ask something of the army’s second in command but Antonius silenced him with a raised hand.

‘Fronto? How goes it?’

‘How do you think?’ Fronto said in low tones. ‘We’re a wet fart from losing the inner wall. We need more men, Antonius.’

The senior officer nodded his understanding. ‘I know. It’s not just you. The whole plain sector is in the same situation. I sent Trebonius off half an hour ago with orders bearing my seal to draft in every man that could be spared from Mons Rea and Labienus’ headquarters and every redoubt and camp in between.’

‘And Caesar’s orders?’

‘Can go hang,’ Antonius said with feeling. ‘I told Trebonius not to take no for an answer, and he’s no fool.’ The officer paused and grasped a wine jar that sat by his half-consumed meal, tipping a healthy dose into his open mouth without bothering to decant it into a cup. ‘Want some?’

Fronto shook his head. ‘Not right now, thanks. Maybe later.’

Antonius shrugged and took another large gulp, wiping his mouth and replacing the jar. ‘I hear your singulares are doing good work, Fronto. You must thank them for me.’

Fronto pointed at the jar. ‘Give them a few of those when it’s over and they’ll be happy.’

The senior officer nodded. ‘Same for all of us, I’d say. If we make it safe to morning, find my tent and we’ll share a few. Bring your lads with you. Varus too. He’s been stomping around the place like a petulant teenager since he can’t field his cavalry tonight.’

Fronto smiled wearily. ‘I’ll do that. Priscus will appreciate it as well.’

Antonius paused in the act of closing up half a dozen wax tablet cases and looked across at Fronto, his face dark. ‘You’ve not heard?’

A cold chill shot through Fronto and he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as a sense of dreadful foreboding flooded through him. ‘What?’

‘Happened early on in the fight. Hours ago, now. Sorry, Marcus.’

Fronto felt his legs tremble, threatening to drop him to the turf and he reached out to the table to steady himself. ‘Priscus?’

‘Yes. He was a good man. You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?’

Fronto closed his eyes. Priscus? It seemed unthinkable. He couldn’t actually picture his friend among the ranks of the fallen. The indomitable prefect had even survived that nightmare at Aduatuca five years ago, when the medicus had doubted he’d ever walk again. A picture of Priscus lying silent and unmoving just wouldn’t form. The man was invincible…

Antonius placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘I gather it was fairly quick. He took a stray arrow. An incredibly lucky enemy shot that managed to penetrate the fence. His last act was to fire the enemy crossings. He took dozens of the enemy with him, in effect.’

Fronto could do nothing but stare. Words wouldn’t form in his mouth any more than a picture of a deceased Priscus.

‘Hear that, Fronto?’ Antonius tried. ‘Cornu from Mons Rea. Sounds like Trebonius succeeded.’ He looked into the legate’s hollow eyes with a worried expression. ‘That’s the Ninth’s call to advance,’ he said encouragingly, ‘so we’ll have the walls strengthened in no time. And I think that’s the First’s call, too.’

Fronto turned away, Antonius’ hand falling from his shoulder, unheeded. The senior officer watched him walk off, back the way he came, and gestured for one of the couriers to attend him. As Fronto walked away, he drew his gladius with deliberate, slow menace, and Antonius tapped the courier on the shoulder and pointed at the retreating form of the legate.

‘Find a couple of contubernia of men and look after legate Fronto. I have a feeling he’s heading into trouble.’

The courier saluted and turned to follow in the wake of the retreating officer.

* * * * *

Cavarinos wiped his blade on his own trousers, ignoring the wet, warm, metallic-smelling smears amid the other spatters of blood, and then slid the sword back into the sheath at his side, his fingers dancing across the leather pouch at his belt that held the curse tablet, as had become habit. Staggering, he clutched his left shoulder where his second flesh wound of the night burned still with hot pain, the blood from the sword cut running down his arm in small rivulets. The other wound was less impressive — though it hurt just as much — where an arrow had hit him in the chest, miraculously lodging itself in the rings of his mail shirt such that the tip only dug into his flesh by a finger’s breadth, bringing forth blood and pain but doing no permanent damage.

He was lucky, really. Very few men who’d made it to the fence had lived. A few had even got over the fence, but had been dealt with immediately by the defenders. Cavarinos had been there in the thick of it just as the Roman reinforcements had arrived from the north, bearing the banners of four different legions and filling the walls, pushing back the few incursions the rebel army had achieved.

From what he’d seen, Cavarinos had to admire the courage of his countrymen, who had managed to actually reach and cross the Roman defences despite being starved and weary and hard-pressed, while it appeared that the reserve forces outside had barely managed to touch the fence, making much less of an impression. And now he could hear the calls going up in the distance from the carnyxes of the relief army. The reserve force was pulling back.

Cavarinos looked up. The first streaks of lighter colour were staining the clouds, announcing the coming dawn. Aurora, the Romans called it: a goddess whose rosy fingers wove their light across the heavens. The Romans would be praising her shortly as they watched the relief army run back to their camp on the hill, allowing them respite again. And with their retreat, Vercingetorix would have no choice but to echo that call, drawing his own army back up into the oppidum. A second attack on both fronts against a trapped army with comparatively fewer men, and yet a second failure. Cavarinos reached up and found the figure of Fortuna hanging at his neck, open now and outside his tunic, for he had touched her in thanks after both wounds had failed to kill him. He wondered what had got into him. He’d happily managed almost three decades of conscious life without resorting to heartfelt prayer, and yet one of the enemy donates him a foreign idol and suddenly he becomes all pious?

He made a conscious decision not to be such a credulous fool, and yet his fingers still played across the cold metal of her form. The dark was retreating rapidly now, the lightening of the sky helping him pick out details. With the easing of identification, the artillerists in the Roman towers began to loose their shots once more, picking standing targets out among the multitude inside the besieged area. Cavarinos stood some thirty five paces from the rampart, back across the ditches filled with faggots and bodies, the men of the tribes still seething this way and that, some retreating for a breather after attempting to breach the walls, others fresh and pushing for the Roman fortifications. The call for the retreat would come any time, but had not yet done so.

Perhaps he should try and seek cover from the deadly scorpion shots? But then the press of men was so solid, the chances of one of the artillery pieces selecting him among thousands was so slight, he would trust instead to luck.

His hand clutched the goddess at his neck involuntarily and he cursed himself briefly, and then again, when the man standing next to him lost his face to a scorpion bolt in a shower of blood and bone which coated him and yet somehow miraculously missed the bronze goddess entirely.

His attention was drawn by an upsurge in the roar of battle, somehow discernible even over the endless din of death and destruction, and his wandering gaze picked out a section of the Roman fence, where a great deal of activity seemed to be taking place. Ignoring the wound on his arm, he began moving back towards the rampart. Figures were crossing the fence. Had they managed a proper breach? If they had then perhaps there was still a chance for tonight.

As he leapt through the mess, making for the scene along with a number of other men who seemed to have cottoned on to the fact that something was happening, Cavarinos was given cause to frown. The figures crossing the fence were not his countrymen. They were Romans! Romans were sortieing from the defences?

In moments, he was picking his way between the few sharpened points that had not been covered with bodies or torn up by the advancing rebels, just outside the twin ditches. A brutal melee was underway just outside the Roman rampart, atop ditches that were no longer visible beneath a flat carpet of corpses. Warriors from a dozen tribes, mixed in the chaos, fought tooth and nail with a small party of Romans that were somehow cutting a bloody swathe.

Behind him, the carnyxes began blowing the call to fall back.

Cavarinos stood transfixed as the world began to part around him, a few die-hards who had succumbed to the battle craze still piling into the Roman sortie, while the vast bulk of the survivors turned tail and fled back toward the slope that led up to the open gates of the oppidum and safety. His feet told him to run, and all sense agreed. Yet for some reason he stood as the ground cleared about him, watching the fight at the ditches only a few paces away.

A scorpion bolt slapped into the churned earth close enough that he felt the breeze of its passage.

His hand went down to the hilt of his sword. Perhaps he would be the last man to leave? Though he’d known he shouldn’t let it get to him, his brother’s ridiculous accusation of cowardice had rankled for the past two days. Since that fight at the end of the last attack, Cavarinos and Critognatos had not crossed paths, the former deliberately staying out of the way. Vercingetorix had tried to heal what now seemed an uncrossable rift between the brothers, but even Cavarinos had been uncharacteristically adamant, while Critognatos had explained in short, spat curses that the next time they met he would tear out his brother’s spine if it turned out that he actually had one.

To be the last man on the field and kill the last Roman of the day would disprove his brother’s accusations.

His heart leapt as the scene opened up. There were perhaps twenty Romans in this foray — no more. They faced a slightly larger force of tribesmen — perhaps forty or so, the rest of the force retreating for the oppidum. But what had caused his heart to skip was the sight of his brother amid the warriors, fighting like a furious bear, ripping Romans apart.

His questions about why the Romans should endanger themselves crossing the fence were swatted away by the irritated realisation that even the possibility of being the last man to retreat had been spoiled by his pig of a brother, who clearly had the same idea.

Anger coursing through him, Cavarinos stamped across the ground towards the fray.

And stopped.

His blood ran cold.

The torn and bloodied plume of a Roman officer came into view — the man busy fighting Critognatos at the heart of the struggle.

Fronto?

Critognatos pulled back his sword and lunged, Fronto twisting to one side out of the way of the blow and stabbing down with his own, shorter, sword, only to have it turned by the big Arvernian’s shield. The Romans were in trouble. Even as Cavarinos watched, his eyes disbelieving and his blood like ice, three more of the regular legionaries were cut down, and one of the men in the different uniform that seemed to be huddling protectively around Fronto. Another of the better-dressed Romans leaned across to try and save the legate from Critognatos, and Fronto batted him out of the way, lunging again.

For a brief moment, Cavarinos caught a clear view of the Roman officer’s face. Despite the mud and blood coating it, he could see the blazing, unrestrained fury in Fronto’s expression. Whatever had got into him, he would not stop this fight until either he or everyone around him was dead.

The scene played out in a matter of scant heartbeats. Cavarinos dithered. He could leap into the fray, of course, and it was not the fear of wounding or death that kept him from doing so. It was the knowledge that if he joined the fight, he had no idea who he would strike. He could hardly attack his own brother, after all. But to drive a blade into Fronto’s gut seemed almost as unpalatable.

Impasse. What could he do?

Two more of the better-dressed Romans were being pushed back to the rampart by half a dozen large warriors, and another of the regular legionaries disappeared with a shriek and a spray of blood. The fight was coming to an end and the Romans were losing. But Fronto was not pulling back with them. The press of rebels pushed the sortie back and back, leaving a small island of combat out in the open. Fronto and two of his well-dressed companions, including a huge dark-skinned one, fought like lions against almost a dozen warriors, though Fronto continued to concentrate on his struggle with Critognatos.

Cavarinos knew his brother. He might be truly unpleasant and utterly thoughtless, but he was also a powerful and skilled warrior and no more likely to give up than Fronto.

Even as he watched, his brother managed to smash Fronto in his head with his shield, sending the legate staggering back with a dented helmet, blood running from his nose. Fronto was fighting hard, but he was over a decade older than Critognatos — possibly even two decades — and he was losing.

Cavarinos tried to take a step forward, but his body seemed unable or unwilling to move, and he watched in dismay. His hand strayed down to his sword pommel again and he watched Critognatos reel back, his shield ripped from his arm. Fronto leapt forward, snarling, and the big Arvernian slammed forward at him as the two remaining Roman guards fought to hold their own against the enemy. One of them kept trying to pull Fronto back, but was too busy trying not to get himself killed to achieve much, and Cavarinos could hear them shouting for Fronto to pull back. Indeed, the rampart was lined with Romans not egging their friends on, but urging them to retreat.

One of the pair was about to die and he couldn’t bring himself to hope it was either. Memories of his parents attempting to keep the warrior brothers close as boys — failing dismally even then — swam into his head. His long-gone mother and father would never forgive him if he let Critognatos die when he could help. His left hand touched the figurine at his neck, and his right drifted from the sword hilt to the leather case at his belt.

Before he’d even known he was doing it, his fingers had fumbled the case open and were pulling out the tightly-wrapped bundle within. Staring at the irreplaceable, dreadfully important burden he had carried, Cavarinos began to unwrap it even as he watched his brother fall back again under Fronto’s savage onslaught. Then his brother struck a powerful hit and Fronto staggered to a knee for a moment before hauling himself back up and leaping in again.

Cavarinos lifted the thin slate tablet up to eye level, momentarily blocking the view of the deadly struggle. Strange figures and arcane words he did not recognise, even with his command of three written languages, crawled across the dark grey surface like the tracks of spiders, seeming to shift, blur and move even as he concentrated on them. He shook his head. It was his tired eyes, of course, after a long night of battle and in the surprisingly bright pre-dawn light.

The tablet lowered a little and he watched the struggle beyond.

‘OGMIOS!’ he bellowed, his eyes widening in surprise — he’d not meant to say anything really. The name of the lord of words and corpses echoed across the grass, punctuated by the crack as he snapped the slate tablet in two.

Critognatos turned, mid-combat, his eyes bulging with shock and horror.

And as the big Arvernian momentarily lost concentration, Fronto struck, that glittering, gleaming, beautiful sword which Cavarinos had so admired at the sacred spring sinking hilt-deep into his brother’s back. Critognatos arched in agony and opened his mouth to shout, instead issuing a spray of blood from his throat.

Even as Fronto struck the killing blow, the big dark-skinned Roman was pulling him back, dragging him away from the danger. Fronto’s rage seemed instantly spent, his eyes no longer on the opponent he had just killed, but now on Cavarinos. The other warriors had stopped, shocked at what was going on around them, and the big, black soldier managed to pull Fronto back. The legate desperately tried to pull his sword from the big Arvernian’s body, but it was jammed fast and as Critognatos toppled forward with a cough, the sword went with him, the big man disappearing among the endless corpses littering the field.

The big dark legionary hauled Fronto physically back to the rampart, where other Romans leaned over to pull him up, the legate’s eyes never leaving Cavarinos as he allowed himself to be removed, unresisting.

The remaining dozen or so Gauls had stopped in shock at the scene, but as the world seemed to come back to life around them a call went up from the rampart and, now that there were no Romans among the crowd, archers and artillerists concentrated on the small group, picking them off with ease.

An arrow whipped past Cavarinos’ head yet he hardly dared breathe, let alone move.

‘Run, you fool!’

Cavarinos wasn’t sure whether the words had come from Fronto or had just been in his own head, but the enormity of what had just happened suddenly came crashing down just as the scorpions in the nearest two towers turned on him, and Cavarinos turned and ran, the last figure on the battlefield to leave, and the last to have caused a death after all.

* * * * *

Fronto stood bleeding on the walkway, his head thumping from the blow he’d received that had ruined his helmet. Masgava was covered in wounds and yet was still holding him up, strong as ever. Palmatus had disappeared in that awful bloody foray, along with several other singulares. All sacrificed to the memory of Priscus.

The death of his friend had driven him mad. He barely remembered climbing over the fence. He had fleeting images of his bodyguards trying to stop him and then being forced to join him, along with a couple of squads of legionaries that had for some reason been shadowing him all the way back from Antonius’ side.

Cavarinos?

He could hardly believe it. He hadn’t recognised the animal he’d been fighting until he saw Cavarinos, and then he recognised the brothers. His rage had blinded him at first. He’d have lost. He knew he’d have lost. The man had been stronger and quicker than him, despite Fronto’s battle rage.

Cavarinos had saved him.

What the Gaul had actually done, Fronto couldn’t quite understand. He’d called the name of one of their gods while he brandished something weird and dark in the air. Whatever it was had diverted the big monster, though, and given Fronto the opportunity he needed.

‘Lucky that Gaul distracted his friend, eh?’ Masgava noted as though reading his thoughts.

‘That wasn’t luck,’ Fronto replied in a hoarse whisper. ‘Whatever he did, he did it for me. I saw his eyes.’

‘Why would he help you?’ Masgava frowned.

‘Because not all of them are savages, my friend. Not all are savages.’ Fronto heaved in a deep, cathartic breath. ‘Help me to the dead-piles. I think I want to see Priscus. And then we are going to Antonius’ tent and for the first time in many a month, I am going to drink until I can no longer remember my name.’

Chapter 22

Lucterius yawned. The night had been busy and dreadful and like every other man present he needed a few hours’ good uninterrupted sleep more than anything else in the world.

But that would have to wait…

‘Where did your vaunted leadership get us?’ Commius snapped petulantly, gesturing at Vergasillaunus, who simply shrugged calmly as he replied. ‘We suffered a setback. Nothing more. The Roman lines were always going to be difficult to break through. You knew that, Commius, for you would not even try.’

Commius ignored the barely-veiled insult and ploughed on angrily. ‘The fact remains that I had an army on this hill that was strong, well-fed and in high morale. You took the command from me and now we have an army that is licking its wounds after two utterly demoralizing defeats, down on manpower and starting to become restless as the supplies we brought with us dwindle.’

Lucterius rubbed his weary eyes. ‘You have a plan of inaction again, then, Commius?’

The former commander turned a baleful glare on him, but said nothing.

‘If you think our morale has taken a hit,’ Vergasillaunus went on quietly, ‘imagine how it has affected the Romans. Our first assault showed them our strength and that we were cunning — not the mindless howling barbarians they believed us to be. That will have given them pause for thought. Our second assault was so strong that we almost cleared the defences on the plains and the Romans were forced to draw reinforcements from their redoubts and forts all around the system. And throughout all this, their supplies have dwindled just as much as ours, but, while we can supplement ours with forage, the Romans are trapped within their fences and must make do with what they have. No. We have suffered two abortive attacks, but they were not defeats, for we are still here, are we not? We have suffered two abortive attacks, but the Romans are hard pressed and becoming more so with every passing day. I would by choice now give them a couple of days to simmer before we hit them again’

He looked across the slope of the hill, past the encamped army and at the oppidum ringed in a double line of fortifications which tore a thick brown line across the land.

‘But I am ever heedful of my cousin’s army in Alesia and their own dwindling supplies. We must finish it soon for their sake. And so we move tonight.’

A sneer crept across Commius’ face. ‘A night attack? Because our last attempt was so successful. No new ideas, then Vergasillaunus?’

The king’s cousin gave his opposition a curious half-smile.

‘Not so, Commius. My scouts were at work throughout the night. While we kept the Romans busy on the plain, my cleverest and quietest riders probed the entire circuit of the Roman defences undetected. And even as we pulled back from the attack during the night, they delivered to me the path of our victory. For our next attack will be the last. We will cut through and save our brothers on the hill and bring ruin to Caesar.’

‘How?’ Lucterius asked hungrily, all need for sleep suddenly forgotten.

‘Their system has a weakness. The inner circuit is an unbroken line, following the rivers along the valleys and supported by the water trench at the western end. The outer line, however, is not as strong as it appears from here. While the view from our camp makes it appear unbroken, there is one place where the system peters out.’

‘That seems suspiciously unlikely,’ Commius sneered.

‘Nonetheless, the camp at Mons Rea is on the southern slope of the hill, overlooking the oppidum, with the inner circuit stretching to both sides. However, the outer circuit climbs the slope of the hill at both sides, but does not meet. The terrain at the top of Mons Rea is rocky. They could not put a ditch through it without many weeks’ work, driving in stakes is near impossible, and there is not enough earth on the ground to form a bank. Their only option would have been to encircle the entire hill, which would have almost doubled their circuit distance. And so the outer wall converges on the camp, just like the inner one. There is our weak spot.’

Commius blinked in surprise. ‘Our weak spot is a Roman camp occupied by two legions!’

‘But one camp. No trench, wall, tower and spike defences. Just a normal camp rampart. We break into that camp and take it and we have a defendable passage through the whole system to unite with the trapped army.’

‘I doubt the Romans will simply let us walk in. They will send everyone they have to defend it.’

‘They will not, Commius. For just before noon tomorrow you and Lucterius and the other solid cavalry commanders will lead the cavalry out onto the plain in a threatening manner, supported by a portion of the infantry. You will pose such a threat that the Romans will be forced to bolster the walls there against you.’

‘While you…?’

Vergasillaunus smiled. ‘As soon as night falls tonight I will take thirty thousand men — the strongest and swiftest we have, selected by their own leaders — and we will head west and then north. By the approach of dawn we will be in position behind the peak of Mons Rea. We will then spend the morning recovering and preparing and as soon as the Romans commit against you on the plain at noon, we will assault the Mons Rea camp from an unexpected direction. My cousin will, of course, see what is happening. He will commit as soon as we do, possibly against the plains walls, in which case you will aid them there, or against the camp with us. Either way, by the setting of the sun tomorrow we will secure a breach in the walls and unite the armies. Then Caesar cannot hope to hold us. We will wipe his army from the land.’

Lucterius felt his heart beating faster. It was a sound plan; a good plan. And if it worked, this would be it. The end of the war and the end of Caesar.

* * * * *

Cavarinos stood at the oppidum wall, looking over the Romans as they worked to repair and replenish their defensive system, past that to the piles of dead heaped on the plain and to the hill beyond where the relief army were encamped, and yet not really seeing any of it.

The Fortuna pendant at his throat seemed to burn cold now all the time, as if taunting him, or perhaps cursing him. His hand went to the leather pouch at his belt, which held the broken, spent slate tablet of Ogmios’ curse, once more wrapped snugly. In a seemingly miraculous fashion — curse the Roman goddess at his throat — the only people to have seen what happened down by the walls had fallen to Roman missiles before they could flee. No one here therefore was aware that the curse had been used — and to what dreadful effect.

And he would have to keep it that way.

He had revealed the curse to the leaders of the army so many weeks ago back in Gergovia and without it there would have been a revolt in which the king would have lost most of his forces. Instead, Cavarinos had shown them the tablet, bolstering their courage, and drawing them back to the fold. They followed Vercingetorix largely in the ridiculous belief that the Gods were with them. To show them the broken tablet would be to put the entire army’s future at risk. And, of course, there would be some rather awkward explaining to do, also.

Strangely, apart from a somewhat unsavoury dream during the three hours’ troubled post-dawn sleep he’d managed, in which his parents had beaten him to death for what he had done and demanded that he seek out and destroy Fronto, he had discovered that he felt absolutely nothing over his brother’s death. No guilt. No shame. Not even a jolt of sadness. But no joy or satisfaction either. Just a sense of sudden freedom, half-swallowed by a hollow emptiness. It had taken deep thinking to come to the conclusion that he had probably done the army and the tribes a great service in his fratricidal deed. It had come as a curious epiphany, as well, to discover that he prized the survival of one of the enemy over his own brother, and he was still unsure as to whether he had called down the curse primarily in order to kill Critognatos or to save Fronto. It was something he wasn’t quite ready to come to terms with. Indeed, until he looked into Fronto’s eyes across the battlefield, he could not be sure whether he would avenge his brother and settle the shades of his parents, or put friendship and the potential future of a peaceful Gaul ahead of such sick trivia.

‘He died as he lived,’ a voice said from behind, startling him. He turned to see Vercingetorix standing behind him, holding out a wooden platter with a few stringy fragments of meat and a chunk of bread that had clearly seen better days.’

‘Knee deep in blood and filth, you mean?’ Cavarinos said harshly and uncharitably.

‘A warrior’s death. They say that even as we pulled out and back to the oppidum, Critognatos and his cadre of warriors saw a small Roman sortie and decided to refuse them their victory. I gather that you were among that crowd, and it seems a gods’ gift that you survived. I am grateful for it, though… I will have need of your cunning these coming days. Now eat. There is not much, but we must all keep our strength up as best we can. We may not have broken out yet, but my cousin will not leave us languishing for long. Rest assured he will already have another plan, and we must be ready to follow along when he shows himself to us.

‘I am sick of war.’

The king gave him an odd look, but recovered quickly into an understanding smile. ‘None of us want to fight forever, Cavarinos. But it will end soon. And you know as well as I that this is about more than just throwing Caesar out of our lands. That is just the catalyst that will change everything. We are at last one nation under one man, and I will not let that collapse when the Romans are gone. If we want to take our place in the world in the manner of a Rome or Aegyptus or Parthia, we must centralise and become a power. The druids brought us here, though they now sit back in their nemetons and watch us carry out the war. It was they who began everything and they have been the glue that bound the tribes together. But now we are whole and it is time they relinquished their hold over our people. Rome has made us into Gaul, and I will continue their good work in their absence.’

‘It is a glorious dream,’ Cavarinos sighed.

‘It is no dream. We are on the cusp, my friend. The next few days will see this war at an end. I can feel it in my blood. And then we must begin the true work of building a nation. Gergovia will always be my home and our greatest fortress, but the Aedui are at the heart of the peoples and Bibracte must be our capital. We must have a senate like Rome, even if I am to be king. The tribes must all have a voice, but they must combine to become a choir with one song, the druids serving the people as Rome’s priests do, rather than guiding them. I need men like you in that senate, Cavarinos. My cousin is a good warrior and a great general, but you are a man with deeper intellect. You will lead the Arverni when I lead Gaul.’

Cavarinos was too tired even to show surprise.

‘I hope it all works out as you propose. But I have a nagging feeling that something is wrong somewhere. Something is about to halt us in our tracks, I fear.’ He turned looked out over the plain again. ‘Don’t misunderstand me — I very much hope I’m wrong. But I cannot shake the feeling.’

‘Intellect is a great thing, but sometimes it leads a man to question even the truths of the world. We will see what we will see. The gods are with us and the tribes are still spoiling for a fight. We have one more raging battle in us and we need to make it count.’

The king placed the plate on the wall top next to the silent nobleman and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder before wandering off back into the city. Cavarinos turned to watch Vercingetorix depart and noted out of the corner of his eye the figure of Molacos, the Cadurci hunter, standing impassively along the wall with folded arms. That cadaverous face twisted into an unpleasant smile as the man gave a tight nod and then turned and sloped off.

One last battle. And then? Peace either way, but what peace?

* * * * *

Fronto stood before the small mound that had been raised at the foot of the Gods’ Gate hill, at the southern edge of the plain and in the wider space between the two lines of rampart. Beneath it lay half his singulares unit, attested by the swords standing proud from the turf at the top. Silently, he listed their names reverently.

Palmatus. A man he’d only known two years or so, and yet had become as close a friend as any. A man who had treated Fronto as an equal despite the gulf in their rank and social status. And yet a good friend. Butchered by the bodyguard who had accompanied Cavarinos’ savage brother.

Quietus. A man who had joined him in more than one deadly struggle.

Celer. As fast as his name, with a mind and tongue even faster than that.

Numisius. Recovered from a broken arm after a fight in the Arduenna forest, tough as ever.

Iuvenalis. An artillerist by trade who had been a master of the grapnel.

The remains of his bodyguard — Masgava, Biorix, Samognatos, Arcadios and Aurelius — stood silent and respectful beside him, honouring the dead. Five survivors of a unit that had been almost twenty strong early the previous year. A former gladiator, a Gallic engineer, a Belgic scout, a Cretan archer. And Aurelius. Despite the sombre occasion, the presence of Aurelius always seemed to make him smile. The man was superstitious to a fault and unlucky enough that if anything humorous and embarrassing were to happen, it would happen to him. And yet a model soldier and a trusted friend.

Friends were becoming fewer and fewer these days.

His gaze dropped to the urn in his arms. Priscus. The cinerary jar was still warm from the ashes within, the pyre black and charred, staining the grass with the memory of death. Priscus. It was harder than anything to believe him gone. The men of his singulares deserved their honours, but somehow the loss of Priscus had utterly eclipsed them. He really had little idea what to do with the urn. It couldn’t stay here in Gaul, clearly. When this was all over, it would have to go back with him, but where? To Massilia where he would no doubt have to think about constructing a family mausoleum? Or to Rome, where his family already had such a tomb? Or perhaps to Puteoli where the family mausoleum still had spaces from generations of dead? Or better still, to the holdings of the Vinicii down in Campania? It would be the most appropriate compliment to take him back to the arms of his family, but somehow he felt that Priscus might be more at home with Fronto’s family, estranged from his own as he was.

He turned to the five men with him, reaching up and touching his tender nose and eye that were swollen and discoloured after the fight beyond the walls — an unending background ache.

‘That’s it. No more. I want each one of you to survive this, even if you have to hide in a ditch or run like a coward. I’ve lost too many friends this season. This morning I went to see the general, as you know. The thing is that while Masgava is a freedman and employed by me, and Samognatos is a hired levy, the rest of you are still tied to the eagle despite being in my guard. No more. I have attained your honesta missio this morning as though you had served a full term. When this fight is over and the season ends, you can consider yourselves free men. You will have your pension and your plot of land.’

The men looked at one another in surprise and Fronto gave that half-smile again. ‘But if you want to continue to serve the Falerii, I will be in need of good men in Massilia, and I have made sure that your land grants are within Roman territory but so close to Massilia that if you fart on your land I’ll hear it on mine. Make sure you survive these last few days and I shall be retiring to Massilia, hopefully with men I trust around me.’

An image of Lucilia and the boys swam into his mind.

‘The war is almost over, lads. Peace is almost upon us.’

* * * * *

The cornu blared its warning and Fronto looked up from the table, where Masgava had almost entirely cleared the latrunculi board of his employer’s pieces. For a gladiator who had never even seen the game until Fronto introduced him to it two years ago, he was unsettlingly good at it.

‘An attack?’ the big Numidian asked quietly, noting the distant call. He was gradually becoming used to the army’s signals, and recognised most of the Tenth’s, but he still had some trouble with the different unit calls, and the melody blaring out across the lines outside the small command tent belonged to the Fifteenth, one of the four legions whose men continually garrisoned the section of defences on the plain.

‘The Fifteenth — a call to the standard. Preparation, so something’s going on. Come on.’

The two men, already in kit given the lateness of the morning, spilled from the tent to see the legions moving to their standards or to positions on the ramparts, as assignment required. Beyond the Fifteenth’s calls, which were being issued by a cornicen only twenty paces from the tent, the musicians of the Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth were also calling the alarm. Biorix, Samognatos, Arcadios and Aurelius stood nearby, already having collected their weapons and shields in preparation. Almost a day had passed since the burnings and interment of the dead, and last night had been entirely uneventful for the six men who had joined Antonius and Varus to send off the souls of their friends through the medium of drink. But each had felt that building of pressure that a career soldier comes to recognise as the approach of action, and each of them was ready for the next Gallic push.

With his singulares in tow, Fronto jogged across the ground, trying to keep to the paths that the legions had laid with sections of timber amid the churned mud that had once been turf. Up the steps to the rampart he climbed, shading his eyes against the brightness of the day as he looked out across the plain.

The mass of horsemen spread out across the flat ground before the enemy camp seemed undiminished since they had first arrived. Despite being soundly beaten, the Gallic reserve cavalry appeared as numerous as ever and the huge press of men and beasts was gathering, seemingly for an attack, below their hill. Behind them, Fronto could just see another gathering of infantry on the hill.

‘What are they playing at?’ Fronto muttered, his eyes narrowing.

‘Massing for an attack, sir,’ said a centurion off to his left — someone he didn’t recognise, but probably from the Fifteenth.

‘Why the cavalry, then? Horse aren’t much use against ramparts.’

‘Perhaps they are hoping to draw out our cavalry again?’ Masgava hazarded.

‘Varus won’t do that. Caesar and he learned their lesson last time, when the enemy pulled tricks and traps on them. And the infantry are lurking at the back. It’s all a bit strange.’

‘Maybe they’ll do it the German way?’ Aurelius offered, and Fronto nodded at the thought. Despite the tactics of the German cavalry now serving with Caesar, the common method of Germanic horse was to ride to the fray, then leap from their horses and fight as infantry while their slaves held the reins until they returned. But that was not usually the way of the more civilised Gallic tribes.

‘Something’s wrong.’

Around the defences, more signals went up and Fronto turned to see Antonius marching along the space between the ramparts in full glittering kit. A distant shape was approaching from the south and the white horse and red cloak confirmed his initial thought: Caesar was coming to take a hand in matters. The legate frowned.

‘Caesar coming down here, and listen… those signals.’

The others cocked their heads or cupped their ears. Most of them were long-term soldiers and knew enough signals to catch the details long before Masgava had unthreaded them.

‘Calling down the reserves,’ Aurelius said quietly.

Biorix nodded. ‘Not just these four legions either. I can hear the Ninth and Fourteenth. Every man in the western half of the circuit that can be spared. Someone thinks this wall is about to be assaulted worse than ever.’

‘Which is, I fear, exactly what the enemy wants us to think. The commanders think they’re preventing a repeat of the last struggle by increasing the manpower here, responding to a simple show of force and starting to concentrate troops on the plain. But the enemy’s attacked here twice and I don’t think they’re daft enough to try the same a third time. This is a feint, and we’re falling for it.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’ Arcadios asked in his thick Greek accent. ‘Looks to me like the reserve force is spreading out to launch an attack all along the wall from hill to hill.’

Fronto followed his gesture. It did indeed look exactly like that. ‘I don’t doubt there will be an attack here,’ he replied, ‘but I don’t think it’ll be the main one.’

He turned at the distant sound of carnyxes.

‘Sounds like Vercingetorix and his men have woken up. They’ve seen it, too. Watch them go for the inner walls. We’re about to be hit from both sides again.’

‘So it’s not a feint?’ Arcadios frowned.

‘Yes it is, but it’s an enormous one. The enemy out there are using the cavalry to draw us all to the plains. The Gauls trapped in the oppidum are cut off. They can’t have any more idea what’s happening than we do, so they’re following suit. But something else is happening. I asked you why the cavalry? The answer’s simple. Their bulk is hiding the fact that their infantry is diminished. Half the enemy foot aren’t there.’

Masgava frowned. ‘So where are they?’

‘That,’ Fronto said flatly, ‘is the important question.’

Turning, he jogged down to where Antonius was approaching the sector’s command post, upon which Caesar was also converging.

‘Fronto. Good. I’ve drawn as many men as I can down here. I’m not going to let us fall short of manpower like last time.’

‘Counter the order,’ Fronto said, breathlessly.

‘What?’

‘Get everyone back to their posts,’ he added, hurriedly.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a feint. Something’s going on. We’re just playing into their hands.’

‘You been sacrificing goats and reading their livers, Fronto?’

‘I’ve been looking carefully at the enemy and working out what I’d do in their place. They’ve failed a direct assault on the plains twice, and only an idiot would try a third time with a tired army.’ He looked north and south along the open space between the walls, where men scurried around preparing the supplies against an attack. Fresh cohorts of men from six legions were hurrying to the flat ground to bolster the lines. He thought for a moment and rubbed his scalp. ‘You were involved in the planning of the circumvallation, Antonius. Is there a weakness anywhere?’

‘A weakness?’

‘Yes. A weak spot. Somewhere that the Gauls don’t have to face twin ramparts, ditches and lilia?’

Antonius fell into deep thought and shrugged. ‘Well there’s Mons Rea. We couldn’t drive the outer rampart and ditch over the hill and didn’t have the time to encompass it, so the defences there are basically the camp ones.’

Fronto’s head shot round to the looming bulk of Mons Rea.

‘But that’s where the largest camp is, Fronto. The home of the Twelfth and Fifteenth. Caninius and Reginus. Only a lunatic would attack the camp of two legions.’

‘Not if most of those two legions were busy down here. That camp is under-manned.’

Even as Caesar slowed on his approach, a question in his expression, Fronto realised how much danger they might be in, the alarms going up on Mons Rea. His searching eyes picked out a huge force of men on foot pouring down the slope above the camp, making for the northern walls. ‘We’ve got trouble,’ he shouted and pointed at the hill. Turning to Antonius and Caesar, he rolled his head, his neck clicking. ‘You need to give the orders to get the men back to their positions and send reinforcements to Mons Rea.’ Gesturing to his singulares, he pointed at the flood of men on the distant hill.

‘Come on.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos felt hollow. Around him, the entire population of Alesia swarmed, committed to the slope and to the push. The forces of the rebel army had been waiting, ready and twitching, for over a day now, watching the reserve forces like a hawk for the next move. As soon as the cavalry had taken the field and the infantry had begun to move off the slope behind them, Vercingetorix had given the order and the entire army had been let loose. No reserves; no wounded held back — there was no point. As the king had so carefully pointed out in private, the rebels had one good fight left in them before starvation and depression wreaked havoc through the mass and brought them to their knees. One last fight. One last try. The fifty thousand plus warriors of the trapped army were fanning out as they descended to attack each section of the defences at once, hopefully putting the Romans under enough pressure that they would have to divide their forces and thin out the defences.

And with them, the rebel army had brought every piece of equipment the king had commissioned during their time trapped on the hill. Grapple hooks on lengths of rope were wound over men’s shoulders. Similar hooks on the end of long poles rested over beefy shoulders. Hide-covered wooden shelters, large enough to cover half a dozen men and pre-wetted against fire, were carried by four strong men apiece. Then there was the usual array of ladders, faggots of sticks, wicker shields for the archers and so on.

It was the most impressive army on the move Cavarinos had ever seen. It was all or nothing; total commitment, and they stood as much chance of success as any Gallic army ever had. The chieftains of the individual tribes involved worked independently, just as Vercingetorix had planned, essentially the native equivalent of a legion. Each leader selected what they saw as a weaker spot in the defences and urged their men at it, the equipment shared out among the tribes as fairly as possible.

It should have been glorious. Win or lose, it should have been glorious. A teetering moment of victory and the end of Roman interference in the tribes. Or a wondrous, noble, fated charge into the face of annihilation. Either way, it should have been glorious.

But Cavarinos felt empty.

It was not the fear — he was Gaul enough to show no fear, and man enough to recognise that every man felt fear, but it was how that fear was dealt with that was important. He had forced the terror down and conquered it.

It was the sheer weariness of the whole thing. What had begun many, many months ago as a great and noble cause for freedom had been tainted so many times by division, betrayal, anger, selfishness and intolerance that it was hardly recognisable any more. And Cavarinos’ personal journey had uncovered something that had left him rather uncomfortable: that some of the Romans deserved preserving and encouraging more than many of his own people.

Fronto had told him that Rome would never give in. Vercingetorix talked big about the future of a united Gaul that was a match for Parthia or Rome, but Fronto had had the truth of it, and Cavarinos recognised it as such: Rome maintained a grudge that was centuries old, and defeating Caesar would not put an end to it. If anything, it would only fuel Rome’s fury. Only when either Rome or Gaul was subservient to the other would there be a chance of lasting peace.

Peace… that was what it was all about now.

And Cavarinos had come to the sad conclusion that he did not really care too much whether he lived to see that peace, for Gaul would seethe and fracture if it lost. Just as the Romans would not let the matter rest, men like his brother — or Vercingetorix, or Lucterius, or Teutomarus — would always harbour the desire to reignite the flame of rebellion, even if all there was in Gaul was already charred wood and ashes. Would it be a land worth living in? Among angry tribes feeling betrayed by one another and men endlessly pushing for hopeless rebellions?

No, he would fight as much as any man in this last battle, but that was exactly what it was for him: the last battle. No more.

Having left the leadership of the Arverni to the king, despite Vercingetorix’s request that he command them, Cavarinos drew his sword and left his kin, making for what looked to him to be the most distant sector of the fighting: at the Roman camp on the lower slopes of Mons Rea.

* * * * *

Fronto paused as they reached the small officers’ corral in the open ground at the centre of the defences, where the equisio and his stable hands were busy feeding and brushing the mounts. Here rested all the horses of the officers on duty in the sector, centrally gathered, as well as a dozen or more healthy mounts kept as spares or for long-distance courier duties.

The equisio — the man responsible for the welfare of all the mounts — was a curious fellow. Short and rotund, he bore little resemblance to an ordinary soldier, but then he had not been chosen for such a well-paid and sought-after post because of his fitness or weapon skills. An equisio was almost always a man more at home with horses than other humans, with an almost preternatural understanding of their needs. This particular one had a ruddy complexion, a slightly upturned nose that put Fronto in mind of a distinctly porcine creature, and between ten and twenty thick strands of ginger hair that crossed his head from side to side, kept down by the slick of sweat on his bald dome.

‘I need Bucephalus immediately.’

The equisio nodded, saluting but simultaneously gesturing for Fronto to lower his voice.

Fronto did so automatically. ‘And five spare steeds for my men.’

Without question or argument, the senior stable master gestured to one of his stable hands. ‘Have Bucephalus brought round, as well as Ajax, Thanatos, Sagitta, Sperus and Alba.’

Fronto turned to the others. ‘Thanatos sounds like yours, Masgava. The rest of you, pick a horse and mount up. I’ll see to it that we keep them afterwards.’ Masgava raised an eyebrow at his beast’s name, which he knew to be an ancient personification of death among the Greek peoples — he’d personally dropped two men who claimed the name into the bloody sand of the arena. Sure enough, when the animals were led out, Thanatos proved to be a great black beast with a fiery temper, larger even than Bucephalus and several hands taller than any other horse present. He looked at the beast for a moment and then broke into a broad grin and vaulted with ease into the saddle, dropping between the four horns neatly.

Fronto hauled himself with the usual difficulty, careful not to rupture something delicate and soft on the horns. Next to them the others mounted and, at Fronto’s gesture, they broke into a walk, a trot and then a run, making for the Mons Rea camp.

The double line of defences ran for perhaps three quarters of a mile from the command post of the plains sector to the southern rampart of the Mons Rea encampment. The camp began at the lowest slope of the hill and covered a large area to perhaps halfway from the crest, in a roughly square form. The inner and outer lines of defences converged here due to the terrain and, had Fronto even visited the camp since the circumvallation was first planned, he might have argued the poor defensive nature of this one position. Relying on the Gauls not having the balls to launch an assault directly on a two-legion camp was simply not enough, as those same Gauls had now proved by launching that very attack and using a continued sustained assault on the plains sector to draw away the Roman officers’ focus.

The horses thundered along the line, veering left and right to avoid large groups of supply officers and men rushing hither and thither in answer to their own unit’s signals. Still, overall, they could hear the sounds of six legions’ cornicens issuing the order for the men to return to their posts and halt the thinning of the defences elsewhere in favour of the plains.

Finally, after what felt like an age of plunging through ordered chaos, accompanied by the carnyxes and war cries of enemy forces seemingly all around, the six horsemen crossed one of the temporary plank bridges that carried the fortifications across the Osa River and left the flat of the plain, climbing the very lowest slopes of Mons Rea.

Already the other end of the camp — to the north and at the higher elevation — was clearly under serious attack and Fronto was surprised, as he looked up at the southern gate of the camp, to see a full complement of legionaries strung out along the rampart and above the gate. As the six of them approached and gave the day’s watchword, the gate swinging open to admit them, Fronto ground his teeth at the idiocy of it. The north wall of the camp was under attack by probably a third of the entire Gallic reserve army, and yet the camp’s garrison had spread their forces across all the walls evenly.

Angrily, Fronto rode inside and looked around until he spotted a centurion among the men behind the gate, overseeing the distribution of supplies and equipment along the walls and into carts for the plains sector. Leaving his friends to enter behind him, Fronto walked the impatient, snorting Bucephalus over to the officer. ‘What in the name of Juno’s greasy shit is going on?’

The centurion saluted with a confused frown. ‘Sir?’

‘Your northern wall is hard pressed, man, yet you’re concentrating men on every front. Explain?’

‘The signals, sir. Maintain positions and hold. Legate Caninius had told us that the general gave the order to hold and not redeploy, and all the legions are signalling that order.’

Fronto stared at the man. ‘The signals were to stop the redoubts and camps around the circumvallation sending their needed men to the plains sector, not to keep every man rigidly in position no matter what was happening around them. Use your damn common sense, man.’

‘Sir?’

Fronto resisted the urge to give the man a slap. ‘You’re wearing half a dozen decorations, so you should know better than this. Unless you have a serious fear that you’re about to come under attack from your sister legions, get these men up to the north wall and try not to let thousands of Gauls walk across it.’

‘Sir… respectfully, you command the Tenth. I can’t give that kind of order against the commands of my own legate.’

Eyes narrowed, Fronto scanned the other men nearby. Behind the centurion’s right shoulder stood a veteran legionary with a scarred face, holding the tablet and stylus that contained the watchwords. The Tessarius — the third in command of a century. The man was trying very hard to conceal an expression of mixed contempt and disbelief at his officer.

‘You. What’s your name?’

‘Statilius, sir. Tessarius. Second cohort, Third century.’

‘Congratulations, Statilius. This is a field promotion. You’re now an acting centurion. I’ll clear it with your legate when we’re not under attack and hip deep in the shit. Now take command of this shambles and get these men to the north wall.’

The veteran legionary saluted in a business-like manner and turned, immediately issuing the required orders, taking two men in every three and sending them up the slope towards the distant sounds of combat. Fronto looked at the centurion whose face was rapidly purpling, but who had finally found the sense not to explode in front of a legionary legate.

‘You can argue this out with your own legate when — if — we make it through this almighty cock up. For now, command your nice safe south wall.’ With a malicious smile, he kicked his horse and rode off towards the east gate, his singulares in tow, leaving the centurion on the verge of eruption, his face a marbled puce colour.

‘I wonder how many others are having similar problems with the calls and the orders,’ Masgava mused as he trotted alongside.

‘I don’t know, but blind obedience is only useful if you temper it with a bit of common sense. Look!’

The situation was clearly the same at the eastern rampart, though at least here there seemed to be an excuse. The incline upon which the camp sat gave the riders a good view across the defences down towards the no-man’s-land between here and the oppidum, and a small enemy force was rushing for the camp’s wall. Not many — perhaps four hundred, maybe four fifty — they were essentially the extreme right flank of the trapped rebel force that had sallied forth along the entire length of the walls.

Fronto looked across at the centurion commanding the gate guard and rode towards him, sliding from the saddle and clambering up the slope to the gate top. ‘Tell me you’re not going to keep a full complement of men here against a few hundred while many thousands attack the north wall.’

The centurion turned an embarrassed look on the legate. ‘Orders, sir, though I can’t say as I like it.’

‘Good. As a senior officer of Caesar’s staff, I am giving you a direct order. Take half your forces, including the reserve century, and reinforce the north.’

An expression of profound relief crossed the centurion’s face and he saluted and ran off, shouting for his signifer and musician. Mere heartbeats passed before the calls went up and every other man stepped back from the palisade, hurrying down the slope to form up on the standard.

Fronto looked along the line, having to lean past the bulk of Masgava who had taken the centurion’s place at his side. Another centurion, clearly of a lesser century, stood a dozen paces further down the rampart.

‘I am Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of the Tenth Equestris, and I’m taking command of this wall’s defence.’ The centurion saluted and Fronto nodded his satisfaction. Better officers than at the south wall, then. Their shields bore the bull emblem of Caesar as well as the XV of Reginus’ Fifteenth legion. He looked down at the defences. While the double circumvallation consisted of a towered fence atop a rampart protected by sharpened branches, twin ditches, lilia pits, metal spikes, caltrops and pointed stakes, this was a standard camp. A timber palisade protected by a rampart and single ditch. If ever there was a weak spot begging to be attacked…

‘Hold the wall top, Centurion. There aren’t many of them, so you should have no difficulty. Use your discretion. If you manage to thin out the enemy enough to be sure they pose no further threat then send more men to the north. I leave that decision to you.’

‘And where will you be, legate?’

‘The gate. It’s potentially a weak point. There’s an unprotected crossing of the ditches there, so you can be sure a few of them will try for it.’

The centurion nodded and gestured to two of his men. ‘Calatorius? Nilus? Take your contubernia down below and support the legate at the gate.’

The men saluted and sixteen legionaries stepped back and descended, the soldiers at the rampart shuffling along to fill in the gaps they left. Fronto smiled again in recognition of the efficiency of the men around him. He had no qualms about leaving the upper rampart in this centurion’s hands, though as he approached the gate he was concerned to note that it was formed of only a single thickness of oak slats, bound and hinged with rope and barred with only a single light beam.

‘Whoever was in charge of this construction should be beaten with his own gate!’ he grumbled as he stepped close. ‘This wouldn’t hold long against a breathless old woman.’ The four men who were already here had the grace to look at the floor at the comment. ‘Apologies, sir. Not our construction, though.’

Fronto nodded. ‘Nothing we can do now. We’ll just have to hold it.’ He looked around at the force he commanded. Twenty legionaries, five singulares and himself. Twenty six men. A double-leaved gate some eight feet in width. He turned to look inside the camp and rubbed his purpled cheek.

‘We can’t keep this gate shut against them. It just won’t hold. So all we can do is form an inner redoubt. See those three carts?’ He gestured to the two contubernia who’d joined him from the walls. ‘Get them over here and form a ‘U’ around the inside of the gate with them. Tip them on their sides and form a rampart. Use any barrels, crates, sacks and ropes you can find to strengthen it.’ He looked at the four men who had been on guard here. ‘You four go get as many pila as you can. If any of you can use a bow, requisition one. Get the stuff and get back here before I have time for a long fart. Got it?’

The four men nodded, saluted, and scurried off towards the nearest supply dump. He turned to his singulares. ‘We’ll stand ready in case they break through the gate while the other lads are still working, but I think we have a short while yet.’

Leaving Masgava distributing the men in a semi-circle, Fronto jogged forward and put an eye to a crack in the gate. The enemy force were spreading out, only a few dozen paces away, but perhaps a hundred of them were making for the causeway that would lead them to the flimsy gate. A command above sent a flurry of pila out against them, dropping a score of running men at distance. Fronto blinked as a familiar figure pushed his way from the throng to the fore of the attack, his face a bleak and tragic mask.

‘Bollocks!’

* * * * *

Back along the inner rampart, as the artillery continued to thud and crunch and twang their deadly rain on the attacking Gauls, Vercingetorix stood tall amid the death, his winged helmet marking him as easily to his men as the red-robed figure on the white horse he could occasionally see behind the Roman defences did to his legionaries. Caesar was constantly on the move, encouraging and cajoling his men. Vercingetorix nodded in respect for his enemy, wishing there was some way he could magically transport himself to the old general’s side to face him in honourable combat.

‘We’re being thrashed,’ an old, cracked voice said from close by, and the Arvernian king turned to see the blood-spattered, aged figure of Teutomarus of the Nitiobriges, rubbing his sore back and standing with a slight stoop, leaning on his sword.

‘We are taking heavy losses, but so are the Romans, and we are but one hammer of three that pound them.’

‘If we keep this up for another hour or two there will be few of us left to boast of our glory,’ Teutomarus groaned and tried to straighten. Vercingetorix looked his ally up and down. The man was too old and weary really to be fighting. He should be at home, leaving this to his sons. But who was the king of the Arverni to deny a chieftain his right to glory. Instead he nodded.

‘We do what we must. Look to the hill,’ he pointed at Mons Rea and Teutomarus followed his finger. ‘See how my cousin has found their weakness. Vergasillaunus presses home an attack on the Roman camp there. That is where this battle will be won or lost. Like those on the plain outside, we do what we must to keep the Romans from sending reinforcements there.’

Teutomarus nodded and lifted his sword in a tired arm. ‘Then let us hope your cousin knows what he’s doing, my young Arvernian king. And we will go and kill some more Romans.’

The old man lurched off, staggering, towards the ramparts and Vercingetorix lingered for just a moment, looking up at the brutal fight going on at Mons Rea. As soon as he saw that north wall fall, he would pull his men in that direction and make for the camp to combine forces. Victory was almost in his grasp; so close he could almost taste it.

Chapter 23

Vergasillaunus of the Arverni exulted. Commius would writhe in humiliation when he realised how precisely the plan had fit its intention. His scouts had been absolutely correct: when viewed from the crest of Mons Rea, the Roman defensive lines had looped up the slope from the plain, encircling two of the smaller redoubts, but descended again to converge on the Roman camp, as had the twin lines at the far side. The camp itself, no more difficult a proposal than any Roman temporary installation, presented the only obstacle separating him from the trapped rebel force.

Moreover it was clearly under-manned, with much of its personnel engaged on the plain against the other attacking forces. Oh, he’d heard the desperate calls of the Roman horns as his thirty thousand hand-picked warriors descended towards the rampart. He could hardly identify one Roman call from another, but their tone and speed suggested more than a little urgency, and he knew them for a desperate command to reinforce the camp against this new threat.

They would be too late and too few to do anything much about it.

As his army flooded towards the camp’s north wall, the ground continued its gentle descent, giving the men an easy charge with no real danger of stumbling or falling, adding to their momentum and to their sense of triumph.

But the reason for the senior chieftain’s confidence was not based on numbers or surprise or terrain, though all three played their part. It was largely down to the fact that his men had been far too agitated to sleep since they had arrived in position during the dark of night, and instead of resting and eating throughout the morning, knowing that they were out of both sight and hearing of the Roman lines, they had practiced manoeuvres repeatedly.

Vercingetorix had reasoned time and again that if they were to succeed, they should be learning from their deadly adversaries; adopting whatever tactics they could make work. It had been uphill work much of the time with the unruly leaders and their fractious tribes.

But these were the best the army had to offer, and he had been careful to bring only those chieftains and nobles in command who were open to his ideas and who he could trust to carry them out without argument. The morning had been an eye-opener as to what the tribes were capable of if they only put aside their arguments and committed to an act.

And so, rather than a rag-tag mass of howling warriors running down the hill, aiming for their own individual glory-hunting duels, the army of Vergasillaunus descended on the Roman ramparts in a more disciplined formation than even many Romans might manage, slamming blades on shields in a rhythmic beat.

Eighteen thousand of his men moved in eight blocks, four-wide and two-deep, each in ordered lines, with the best-armed and — armoured men at the front, presenting a solid shield-wall, heads lowered to protect the face. Behind the shield wall, the next two rows held spears out ready, while two of the rear blocks were constituted entirely of archers and slingers. And following the blocks of infantry and missile troops, some forty paces to the rear, came the reserve force of nine thousand men, ready to take the place of the dead, the wounded, and the exhausted in the ranks as required. The remaining three thousand moved between the army and the reserves with their burdens, ready to tip the balance in this assault.

It was an army such as the tribes had never fielded and, because he had so carefully chosen the men and their commanders and five solid hours of planning and training had ensued, they carried out the manoeuvres with all the discipline and grace of a legion.

Fifty paces. Some of the men were already twitching to attack, their spear-tips wavering. But they held, despite the urge to cast. Good. Too early yet, but at least they were eager and prepared. Range had to close yet though.

Forty paces. Vergasillaunus could see the Romans tensing all along the rampart, ready to throw their own pila. There seemed to be more of them now than there had been a moment ago. As he watched, more men filed onto the defences, filling the gaps. Someone had managed to rally extra men into the fray, but still they were too few and hidden behind too poor obstacles. Time was running out for the men of the Mons Rea camp.

Thirty-five paces. The centurion he could see on the wall, identified by his red transverse horsehair crest, raised an arm. That was it, then.

‘Cast!’ Vergasillaunus shouted.

The second and third ranks barely faltered in their advance, hurling their spears up and over towards the defenders. Vergasillaunus saw the centurion’s arm falling to echo the manoeuvre and did not even pause for the last spear to leave before he bellowed his second command on the heel of the first.

‘Chelona!’

At his command, given in the Greek, for he couldn’t countenance a Latin command, the front rows of each block split neatly and efficiently and brought their shields up to the fore, the sides and the top in a more-than-passable imitation of a Roman testudo formation. His timing had been spot on. Even as the formations coalesced in the press of men, the pila rose from the defences, supported by the bolts from three scorpions and the arrows of a couple of dozen auxilia assigned to the rampart.

The Roman javelins went through the shields as often as they were turned by them, and no formation would stop the scorpion shots, but still the arrows were largely nullified and many men survived the volley because of the Roman tactic.

It took a moment for the tortoise formations to recover, shuffling together and attempting to fill the gaps with varying degrees of success. The Roman archers took advantage of the hesitations to put arrows into the gaps in the shield-walls, trying to open them up more and along the line, here and there, testudos collapsed.

But most reformed and moved inexorably against the wall.

The Gauls’ spears were designed for fighting with, not throwing, and their volley had been rather random and haphazard, yet it had had an astounding effect, which Vergasillaunus suspected would stay in the memory of these men and change their mode of warfare forever. The weapons may have been unwieldy and off-target, but there had been thousands of them and by the law of averages, many hundreds had found their mark. In a single volley, the wall’s defenders had thinned out considerably, and the way looked more inviting and easier than ever. His gaze dropped from the palisade, down the steep — if low — rampart slope to the v-shaped ditch with an equally precipitous inner slope. Many hundreds, if not thousands, would perish there, filling the ditch with their corpses.

Unless he could prevent it. Now to try something else.

At a third call, echoed along the lines by the tribes’ leaders, the testudos stopped advancing, closing up before the ditch and creating a solid line, two shields high against the Roman arrows. As the line formed, leaving gaps every hundred men, the blocks of archers reformed into longer lines behind them and began to return the volleys.

In a matter of heartbeats the air was full of arcing black shafts, many more hurtling towards the camp than issuing from it. And as the archers carried out their attack, Vergasillaunus gave his second-to-last planned command.

‘Ditches!’

At the call, the three thousand men loitering behind the attacking force and ahead of the reserves ran forward, disappearing into the gaps left in the formation, pushing their way out into the open and braving the missiles to cast their huge baskets, barrows and sacks of debris, earth, brush and so on into the ditches, one after the other.

Perhaps every third man of the earth-carriers disappeared with a shriek as he burst out into the open and fell foul of a thrown pilum or a loosed arrow or bolt, but their burden was already out, falling into the ditch, their bodies only adding to the debris.

It took the space of a hundred heartbeats to complete the manoeuvre. He had lost almost a thousand men, their bodies in the ditch beneath the rampart, adding to the crossings they had formed so thoroughly with their burdens. Though it irked him to think like a Roman commander, Vergasillaunus could only note that a thousand was a small price to pay to nullify the ditch and much of the rampart slope, for the attackers now had clear ramps leading straight to the Roman palisade. Had he led his army in the usual fashion, there would be five times as many bodies in that ditch before the first man ever reached the defences. He might hate the Romans for what they were and what they had done, but he was forced to grudgingly respect the efficiency of their military ways.

The shield wall closed up as the last man retreated, and at Vergasillaunus’ final command the army surged forward at the wall. The Arvernian commander took a deep breath as he watched his near twenty-nine thousand men rushing the meagre defences manned currently by less than a thousand. Unless the Romans pulled a miracle out of their backsides, the day would by his within the hour.

Expelling that explosive breath, he drew his blade. There were limits, of course, to how far he was willing to emulate a Roman general. No standing at the back and looking pretty for him. With a roar, Vergasillaunus of the Arverni pointed his sword-tip at the enemy, adjusted his shield and broke into a run.

* * * * *

When the camp’s east gate gave way it did so almost explosively, one leaf ripped from its rope bindings and flying in against the inner redoubt like a missile, the other breaking into individual timbers and crashing back against the rampart, smashed and useless.

The attack had been delayed by the efficacy of the centurion and his men on the wall-top, casting endless missiles down at the small Gaulish force and keeping them back for as long as possible, but as the attackers managed to pick off a few of the Roman guards and the supplies of pila began to thin out, the flurries of defending missiles diminished and the Gauls had come on afresh.

It had bought Fronto enough time to construct and man his redoubt, and now his twenty six men faced perhaps four times that number, bursting through the gate, the Romans gritting their teeth and ready to fight from their hasty barricade of wagons and barrels. The legionaries hefted their pila, watching the flood of Gauls push through the gate and into the ‘U’ of defences.

Fronto lifted his gladius — no longer the beautiful orichalcum hilted blade he’d lost in the fight against Critognatos of the Arverni — and angled the dulled-if-sharp point towards the dead brute’s brother who ran at the forefront of the attack, his face somehow hollow and empty. Fronto swallowed for a moment, awaiting the crash.

The Gallic warriors hit the wagons like a winter storm wave crashing on the rocky shore, shaking the entire redoubt and threatening to knock it over entire and trash the defence. But as the wagons rocked back to solidity, men like Masgava and one thick-set brute who’d come down from the walls steadying them with meaty hands, the work of killing began on both sides. Half the defending force stood atop barrels and raised platforms, stabbing down at the attackers, while the rest remained on the ground, jabbing through the numerous gaps in the rickety redoubt with their swords, trying to catch any unarmoured and exposed body part.

Cavarinos came at him like some sort of killing machine, his face hollow and expressionless, his actions mechanical and stiff, his empty, shield-free arm coming up to grab hold of an exposed spoke of a cart wheel, giving him leverage to leap up onto one of the reinforcing boards beneath the vehicle and use it as a step to stab out with his long, Gallic blade.

Fronto ducked to the side, the blow being unwieldy and poor, given Cavarinos’ precarious attack position. He lifted the small, round shield he had selected from the supplies his men had brought in — a signifer or musician’s shield, portable and light but with much less protective surface than a standard legionary equivalent. Cavarinos barely breathed before his sword came back and swung in a wide, unheeding arc that almost took the top off the head of one of his own men close by before sweeping forward and down against Fronto.

The man’s eyes might be hollow, but he was fighting like a demon, seemingly driven on by the sight of the Roman officer. Why? Yes, Fronto had killed the man’s brother, but if Cavarinos hadn’t saved his life, that same brother would have spitted him instead. The answer, of course, was simple: grief. Fronto had seen and lived through enough grief to know how it could grasp a fighting man. He might be seen to accept it stoically — might even believe that himself — but somewhere inside, the blame blossomed like a sick, crimson rose, forcing a man to test his fate at the edge of a blade. Cavarinos likely felt so deeply shocked at what he’d done that the only end he could see was the death of either Fronto or himself in atonement.

Well not today, my friend.

The legate raised his small shield in time to take the blow, though the power of it sent a shock along his arm and he thought it might have broken one or two of the small bones in his hand. An arc of red-painted wood and leather edging strip came away with the blow and flipped off into the distance.

Fronto recoiled, adjusting his hold on the battered shield with his stinging fingers, his sword hand whitened with the pressure of its grip. A second Gaul appeared at the side of Cavarinos and lunged at him. Fronto reached out to hack at him, but Masgava was there, a long sword lashing out and smashing into the man’s face, throwing him back from the defences.

There was no respite. Fronto had to raise his diminished shield again to stop another assault from the Arvernian noble before him. He noted, as fresh pieces of painted wood were carved from his defence, the bronze figure of Fortuna swinging beneath the man’s chin, and felt how odd it seemed that the man was clearly more possessed by Nemesis right now than by luck, while Fronto, who wore that sword-wielding Goddess, felt no anger but could do with a little good fortune.

‘Cavarinos, stop!’

There was no life in the man’s eyes as he lashed out again. Nor, it appeared, was the Arvernian putting heart or thought into his attacks. They were animalistic and mechanical. And as the noble lunged again, this time with such force that he overextended and almost lost his grip on the cart, Fronto jabbed out with his sword towards the exposed armpit. It came as no surprise when his heart overrode his brain and his arm jerked short, halting the easy-killing blow before it touched flesh. Instead, he flicked his gladius out and turned the blade away.

As Cavarinos came back from another silent, expressionless attack, Fronto caught sight of Masgava out of the corner of his eye. The big Numidian was giving him the oddest look, and Fronto chose to ignore it as he turned away another of Cavarinos’ lunges with his battered shield and kept his gladius back ready to block others.

Another lunge. And another. A sweep easily turned.

Fronto shook his head at the madness of it. The man was crazed and sooner or later he would have to kill him before the Arvernian got in a lucky blow.

From the corner of his eye, he saw his singulares commander take the arm off an attacker at the elbow and then slam out at another, knocking him back from the makeshift barricade.

‘Masgava?’

The big Numidian turned, taking advantage of the momentary lull, as Fronto blocked yet another blow.

The legate ducked back. ‘Put him down for me, if you would?’

Masgava frowned and, as Cavarinos lunged out for another attack on the legate, the huge former gladiator lashed out with his own sword, hilt first, smashing the heavy steel into the Arvernian’s head. The noble disappeared with a sigh, falling away from the barricade to be replaced by another warrior, this one exhibiting much more life and vitriol as he snarled and slammed his sword forward. Fronto felt relief flood him as he released the killer that he held locked behind his eyes and stabbed out into the man’s throat, tearing out his wind pipe and artery as he withdrew his blade in a spray of crimson that soaked the cart and the men fighting over it.

‘You’re going soft,’ grunted Masgava next to him as he turned back to take down the next of the attackers. Soft or not, he’d done the only thing he could with Cavarinos. The man might well die down there, taken by a stray blow or just trampled to death by his own people, but at least there was a chance, and Fronto had not had to skewer him. There was nothing he could do about the man’s fate right now. Perhaps when they had fought off this small attack he could be retrieved. All Fronto could do was hope that his beloved patron goddess continued to look after the man around whose neck she now hung.

Along the wall above, he could hear the centurion calling his men to greater feats of arms and marksmanship, so the fight must be going on as brutally elsewhere. Certainly the mob in the gateway seemed to have increased as the enemy realised that their compatriots had forced what appeared to be a breach.

Another Gaul appeared over the cart, hauling himself up and to Fronto’s left, Aurelius hacking out at him. Fronto heard a tell-tale thrumming noise and his keen eyes caught the missile in flight. His left arm lashed out, almost flattening Aurelius as the near-destroyed shield still in his grip caught the arrow in the wood surface. Aurelius blinked, and Fronto flashed him a grin.

‘I told you: no one else dies. Keep your eyes open.’

Down among the seemingly endless press of bodies in the gateway, Fronto caught a momentary glimpse of a mail-shirted man amid the bodies, bow still raised from the shot, his unpleasant, maniacally-grinning face lowering as he disappeared again amongst the crowd.

In defiance of Fronto’s ‘no more deaths’ order, one of the legionaries staggered back from the wall, clutching a ragged hole in his chest from which blood issued in gouts. It was only as the man fell to the ground that Fronto realised the man had not been the first. He joined three other legionary corpses in the dust. Gritting his teeth, Fronto looked back at the next attacker, slamming his blade point into the man’s face even as he brought the pitiful remains of his shield up.

Time rolled on in the small, ‘U’-shaped theatre of death as the Gallic bodies piled up and more and more of his defenders hit the ground. Without his having to send a request, one of the nearby officers had clearly seen the danger and sent two more contubernia of legionaries to bolster the gate defence. Biorix suddenly staggered away from the wall, his shield cast aside, clutching his own arm as crimson rivulets ran down his mail shirt from somewhere near his armpit. Fronto threw him a stark, questioning look but Biorix shook his head with a smile. Not critical, then, but debilitating. Without two serviceable arms and busy bleeding a man was no use on the redoubt. A capsarius appeared from nowhere and helped Biorix back from the fight to tend to his injury.

And on it went. Half an hour passed — perhaps three quarters — and Fronto took advantage of a pause to rise and peer over the makeshift barricade into the pit of seething forms, both living and dead.

‘Is it me or are there more now, despite everyone we’ve killed?’

Masgava nodded as he scythed off the jaw of a Gaul. ‘Looks that way.’

Fronto looked up at the wall, where a commotion cut across the fighting. The centurion commanding the wall defence was in close discussion with two of his men even as the others continued to fight off attackers, and Fronto felt a frisson of anticipation as he saw the officer pointing off to the southeast.

‘Hold the barricade,’ he shouted to Masgava, somewhat redundantly, as he dropped back down from the cart and turned, running across to the rampart and clambering up the bank. His heart, pounding heavily from both the fight and the climb, skipped a beat as he looked out from the wall-walk, seeing what the centurion had spotted.

Almost the entire Gallic force along the inner defences, which had issued from the oppidum and spread out to try each position, had turned in response to some unheard signal and was now leaving the circumvallation, their sights set on the Mons Rea camp. Many thousands were even now approaching the poorly-defended camp.

‘Oh shit.’

* * * * *

Molacos watched his shot thud into the officer’s shield and nocked another arrow, his sight shifting to Cavarinos of the Arverni. The man had fought like a wolf against the Roman atop the cart, but something about him disturbed Molacos, and he felt his mistrust bolstered when, rather than simply killing him, the Romans knocked him out. Drawing back the string, he marked the heap on the ground that was the Arvernian noble. Perhaps a waste of an arrow, but the man simply did not appear trustworthy. With a held breath, he let the missile fly, barking his annoyance as some unidentifiable warrior in the press barged into him, knocking him aside. The mob had closed up and he’d lost sight of Cavarinos, unsure whether his arrow had struck true or not.

In irritation, he ripped his knife from his side and hamstrung the man who’d knocked him, dropping back through the press and leaving the screaming warrior floundering, flopping on his useless leg.

As he moved, he sheathed his dripping knife and fastened his arrow case. Despite the mass of men flowing this way from Vercingetorix’s army, he had a distinct feeling that this position was going to become a charnel pit soon and there was no guarantee which side would fill it most before the fight was won or lost. This was a place for a mindless killer, not for a huntsman. A place for brawn, not skill.

Ducking between slavering warriors, Molacos retreated from the fray until he reached the broken gate, where the mass still filled the space, though not quite so tightly-packed. With profound regret, he let his precious bow drop away to the floor and unfastened his quiver, dropping it among the mess.

Taking a steadying breath, he ripped a green scarf from his belt pouch and tied it around his neck above the mail shirt he had acquired during his days trapped in the oppidum. Hoping none of his kin would understand what he was trying, he whipped his bloody knife from his side again, grasped the end of the cart that butted up against the gate edge and sought the defenders behind it through gaps and nooks in the barricade. His eyes caught the russet of a Roman tunic and his hand disappeared into the hole, gouging with the knife. A moment later, he withdrew it and the Roman had gone. Another check and another tunic. Another lunge through a hole and another victim. And in heartbeats, the very end of the barricade was clear. With a deep breath, he pushed at the cart until it moved a few hand-widths. Another shove and it opened a little further. The Roman officer commanding the redoubt had clearly spotted something amiss and was shouting for his men to close the gap.

With a brief prayer to Ogmios in his guise as lord of words rather than master of the dead, he slipped through the gap, opening his mouth to shout in his best Latin, his accent a good southern Cadurci, carrying the same inflection as the Romanised men of Narbo.

‘Breach!’ he bellowed. ‘Help me!’

He’d known that the Romans would close the gap, of course. They were too efficient to let the warriors outside capitalise on the tiny breach. But it had been enough for him to squeeze through. The Romans nearby, not legionaries, but some sort of bodyguard for the officer, looked him up and down and a scout in Roman colours noted the green scarf — the same shade as the one the scout himself wore, along with every other auxiliary scout and hunter — and nodded, rushing over to help this auxiliary with the skeletal grin close the gap.

It was the work of a moment to help the Romans close the gap and re-deploy at the edge, and then to slip away with one of the legionaries who was running back to the piles of supplies nearby. An officer of some kind turned to him, probably seeking to send him to work elsewhere, but Molacos clutched his side with his knife hand, the blood from his three victims running from the blade and down his hip, looking for all the world like gore from a wound in his side, and the officer’s eyes slid past him and on to another target. A capsarius rushed over to help him, but Molacos shook his head, and the medic ran off after someone else.

With a satisfied smile, the Cadurci hunter picked up a battered shield from one of the piles and, almost indistinguishable from the many auxiliaries among the Roman force, made his way towards the northern rampart. This was no place for him. But somewhere outside the Roman lines — easy enough to traverse from the inside — back towards the reserve camp, Lucterius and his Cadurci brothers would be fighting.

And that was where he needed to be, for Molacos fought not for a unified Gaul, nor for hatred of the Romans, nor for Vercingetorix himself. Molacos fought for his master, Lucterius, and would do so to his last breath.

* * * * *

Fronto was hard pressed. What had begun as defending a weak point against the periphery of the inner force’s attack had quickly become the second-most fought-over position on the battlefield. While the reserve cavalry and their infantry support slugged it out over the ramparts on the plain, the north wall of the Mons Rea camp was swamped with enemy warriors, but the south-eastern side had become the target for the force that had been trapped on the oppidum. Another hour had passed at a guess, based on the movement of the sun across the sky, since the redoubt had almost caved, its defensive cohesion only saved at the last minute by one of the native levies who’d happened by.

Since then, the gate had become something of a focus for the rabid enemy. As the huge rebel army converged on this position, the powers inside the camp — who Fronto had no time to go and see since every man counted — had seen fit to send three more centuries of men to the makeshift barrier. Fronto had immediately left Masgava to directing the fighting men and sent the new arrivals to fetch more equipment and more junk to help strengthen the defence. It had worked and the place still held, though by the skin of their teeth. The barricade was perhaps half as high again as it had been and twice as thick, with grain sacks, clods of earth, timbers and more all thrown into the pile to help strengthen it, and the number of men fighting to hold it was gradually increasing, while the attacking force in the ‘U’ failed to grow, limited as they were by the gate.

A quarter of an hour ago he’d taken the time to pop up to the rampart and confer with the centurion again. Things were looking troubling all round, it seemed. The newly-arrived Gauls had managed to fill in the single ditch outside the east rampart with relative ease and had set up shield walls while their archers and slingers had begun to pelt the parapet with their missiles. Fronto had left the man to it. The situation was pretty bleak but the centurion — one Callimachus — seemed to have his head screwed on; one of the more competent officers Fronto had yet encountered in the whole system, and he could handle the disaster as well as any other. Before returning to the fray to discover that Arcadios had been forced to pull back with a vision-blurring head wound, Fronto had grabbed one of the nearer couriers and told him to ride for Antonius and Caesar as fast as possible and request help.

‘What message should I deliver, sir?’ the man had asked, worried.

Fronto had blinked. ‘Send help,’ he’d replied helpfully.

‘But how many men, from where and to where, sir?’ the young courier had asked, frowning.

Fronto had grasped him by the neck, bunching his scarf, and dragged him to the redoubt, lifting him so that he could see over it, almost having the top of his head removed by a stray sweep of a blade, and then lowering him, terrified, to the floor again.

‘Did you see the enemy?’

The acrid smell of urine had risen from the courier’s tunic. ‘Yessir.’

‘Unless you want them pushing a sponge-stick so far up your private manhole you can taste it, tell Antonius and Caesar to send everyone they can spare to Mons Rea.’

The man had nodded emphatically, his eyes wide, his curly locks having been trimmed by an impromptu blade. Fronto had let go and patted him on the head, and the man had run for his horse.

That had been almost quarter of an hour ago, and nothing had happened. Occasionally, Fronto had paused and tried to make sense of the military calls, but the simple fact was that the battlefield was such a chaotic din of noise that trying to unthread it was like trying to unpick a tapestry one handed in the dark while playing a lyre.

A Gaul thrust a spear up at the wall top, the blade coming perilously close to Fronto’s helmet, and he ducked before lunging out and stabbing the man in the chest.

There seemed no end to the opposition. They had killed hundred upon hundred of the Gauls, and taken a steady stream of dead and wounded in the process, the poor bastards dragged or helped back from the redoubt by medics or the dead-patrol accordingly, only to be replaced by their weary tent-mates.

But it was not the numbers or the defences as such that worried Fronto. What gave him serious pause for thought was that there had been cracking and banging noises from fore and below for a while now, and that signified that some of the more astute Gauls had given up trying to flood over the barrier and were now busy pulling apart the carts plank by plank to get through to the Roman defenders. And they would, in due course.

‘You’re looking tired, Fronto. Are you getting enough sleep?’

Fronto delayed only long enough to put his utilitarian military gladius through the temple of an unhelmeted warrior who’d made it to the top of the barricade and turned with a frown.

Titus Labienus, Caesar’s senior lieutenant and one of the most successful and respected generals of Rome, sat astride an impatient looking bay a few paces away.

Fronto blinked and looked past him.

Legionaries in seeming hundreds and thousands were busy pulling what they needed from the supply dumps and filtering onto the rampart and to the barricade as their centurions commanded. Finally, after weeks of maintaining their position in the Alesia lines, the First and the Seventh had finally committed.

‘You are a sight for fucking sore eyes, Labienus. About time. Got sick of all the baths and the snoring did we?’

Labienus smiled indulgently, but the way his expression slid quickly into serious and troubled worried Fronto.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t get over excited, Fronto. Estimates put your opposition at about five thousand, and I’ve brought six cohorts.’

Fronto heard a clunk and looked over his shoulder to see a grapnel over the wall top, the timbers up there already straining, the centurion sending legionaries over to deal with it before some behemoth of a Gaul ripped the wall apart. The bastards were serious and only a heave or two away from success, then. ‘Six cohorts is better than a kick in the teeth, Labienus.’

‘Then get ready for me to put the boot in. Five of them are for the north rampart. Caesar’s trying to bring in reserves to help here, but he’s got other troubles down on the plains. The Gallic reserves are pushing him to the limit, so he’s being careful with his own troop assignments. For now I’ve got only one cohort for you, I’m afraid.’

Fronto nodded tersely. ‘I’ll make them worthwhile.’

‘You do that,’ the staff officer replied. ‘And here’s a little something extra for you: new orders agreed by the general. Have a cornicen so close you can hear his arse squeak when he walks. If the walls are breached anywhere unrecoverable, have the man blow the Bacchanalia chant. As soon as that chant goes up anywhere along the walls, every century available is to form up and prepare for a sortie against the enemy.’

Fronto stared at the man. Sortie beyond the walls? The man was mad. But Labienus was nothing if not an inventive tactician, and had yet to be beaten in a campaign, with a success rate even surpassing Caesar’s.

‘Alright. You’d better know what you’re doing, Titus.’

‘For the love of Juno, Fronto, I really hope so!’

* * * * *

Caesar felt the icy thrill of uncertainty. Throughout his entire command of Gaul, which had taken him from governor of three provinces to becoming a conqueror and all-but-governor of a fourth new one, he had rarely been caught off-guard. When he had, he had usually had systems in place to recover the situation as quickly as possible, and had never truly felt that strange excitement of being on the cusp of losing everything until Gergovia. And now here he was, mere months later and feeling it again. It was strangely intoxicating. Much more so than the smug knowledge that he would overcome whatever the odds, which had been his gut feeling throughout his career, even in that ridiculous business with the pirates so many years ago.

But Gergovia had been a disaster and he’d chosen to turn it into a hurdle rather than a wall, withdrawing and deciding to regroup. Then somehow, despite his best plans, he’d found himself in almost as poor a position now. He had besieged his enemy and in turn been besieged, and he’d been sure of success even then. But while the Arvernian king on the hilltop had been predictable and ineffectual, some nobleman among the enemy reserves had proved to be at least as intuitive and inventive a commander as the rebel leader, and had in the end put the Roman forces to the test, at the very limit of their strength.

He knew that Mons Rea had proved to be a weak point, and had committed Labienus with six cohorts to aid them. He knew as well as any man that such an act was akin to jamming a single rag into a failing dam. Mons Rea would need more men. And yet the Gallic cavalry and their infantry support on the plains were in serious danger of breaking into the outer rampart, the defenders truly hard-pressed, and if that line fell then Mons Rea would be irrelevant, for the entire system would be swamped under the enemy bodies which even now outnumbered the Romans by perhaps three or four to one in total.

And the Gaulish reserve was well-fed and well-rested, while the beleaguered Romans were to a man hungry and exhausted. Things were dangerous here on the plain, and would only get worse as his men continued to tire until the rampart fell and the whole siege collapsed in annihilation for the legions.

His men needed encouragement and heart, and Caesar had spent the last hour in a frantic rush of action, all along the plains defences, from the foot of Mons Rea to the lowest slopes of Gods’ Gate. His white horse and red cloak marked him out wherever he went, and his continual cries of ‘For Rome!’ had made his voice hoarse and scratchy and left him shaking. Every now and then, he’d paused to take stock, rattling out a series of orders to whatever officer he could find — usually Antonius, who seemed to be everywhere at once, encouraging and organising like some sort of Mercury in human form. And between such confabs Caesar had been one with his men, at the fence, driving his priceless blade into Gallic bodies as he shouted for his men to hold, at the gates of the cavalry enclosures, helping keep the enemy from felling the timber leaves with axes, on the towers with the artillerists, helping them sight to pick off the most important of the enemy horsemen, his own steed tied to the posts below. And everywhere he had been, he had spoken to the men as equals with words of praise and reassurance — that they had held in more trying times and situations than these. That they must hold for the love of Rome and of victory. That this would be the last fight and with it Gaul would be theirs to loot. That by the time the sun touched the horizon, the rebels would be beaten.

Everywhere. He had not stopped, and he felt so tired. He kept suffering involuntary visions of his bed and a platter of fruit his slave would have waiting when he retired to it. And with every passing hour and the constant tiring activity, the fear increased that he might have one of his attacks in public, where it could not be contained and hidden. He stifled a yawn.

The afternoon was beginning to wear on, the sun slipping lower and lower in the sky, threatening to turn this fight into a night attack.

He paused at one of the small command posts where a supply centurion was giving out orders and receiving requests from an endless stream of runners, and took a swig of water from one of the open barrels from which buckets were being carried around the defences.

‘General?’

He turned to see Varus looking twitchy and tense. ‘Yes?’

‘I want permission to make a break out from one of the cavalry forts, sir. If I can get round behind them, I can perhaps take the pressure off the ramparts?’

‘Pointless,’ rumbled Antonius, appearing as if from nowhere, swigging from his ubiquitous wine flask and wiping a mix of it and half a pint of arterial spray from his lower face.

‘What?’

‘The cavalry are only the distraction down here. Their infantry are doing all the real damage to the ramparts and if you sally, their cavalry will engage you while their foot continue to rip us apart. You’ll just be throwing away your horse.’

Varus sighed. ‘We have to do something. I have thousands of good men sitting idle.’

Caesar nodded. ‘Their time will come, Varus. And soon, I think. In an hour or so, if things have not eased, I will have to do something drastic to turn the tide, and if that becomes a necessity I will have need of your cavalry. Have them continue to rest and prepare, but have them all filter slowly to the northern end of the defences, towards Mons Rea. Slowly and carefully, mark you. I don’t want the enemy to realise you’ve redeployed the entire horse.’

Varus frowned but nodded.

‘What is the news?’ the general enquired of Antonius as he took another handful of water and rubbed it across his tired face.

‘Brutus is making his way up to Mons Rea with another six cohorts. You know even then we won’t hold there, yes?’

Caesar nodded wearily and stretched, keeping his voice low. ‘I’m having the best part of a legion form up from Labienus’ forces. We’ve almost emptied the eastern arc of our circumvallation now. We can only hope that the entire oppidum has committed, for if they have kept a reserve and discover that we have withdrawn almost all our force to this section, this day could be over very quickly.’

‘But the same holds true of Mons Rea and the plains.’

Caesar nodded. ‘We will continue to feed whatever reserves we can pull together into the Mons Rea camp and hope they can hold while we maintain these ramparts on the plains. We cannot afford a night-time battle, though, Antonius. Our men are spent. If we cannot finish this in the next hour or two, I will have to try something. I’ve already given Labienus the authority to sally if the walls fail.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t have to try.’

‘Yes. Cast up your prayers to Mars and Minerva that young Brutus can plug that hole with six more cohorts.’

* * * * *

Brutus gestured to the cornicen he had chosen as chief signaller for the six cohorts. ‘First and Sixth cohort to the east gate. Looks like Fronto’s in deep trouble.’ The signaller nodded and pursed his lips to sound the melody that would send the two freshest and strongest cohorts to support the troubled east wall as Brutus went on. ‘Then sound for the other four to spread out and filter into the northern defences by century. As soon as they’re on the rampart, they are to pay attention to the musicians and signifers already there. They are much more aware of the situation than we.’

Leaving the cornicen to his work, Brutus hurried on ahead of the quick-marching cohorts, running through the centre of the camp, where the only men to be seen were a few supply troops lugging bundles and bags of equipment to some position or other, the critically wounded staring at the stumps of limbs and small makeshift hospitals where occasional medici and, more often, over-stretched capsarii worked tirelessly to save lives and limbs and to close wounds, far too busy to spend time with pain-killers or drugs. Screaming filled the void at the camp’s centre.

Finally, he arrived at the northern defences and he felt his heart catch in his throat.

He had known that the north end of the Mons Rea camp was in trouble — that was no secret anywhere among the circumvallation, for the mass of attacking Gauls swamping it was visible even down on the plain. But the extent of the danger was simply staggering up close. Even as he stumbled to a halt and stared, Caninius, legate of the Twelfth whose camp this was, lurched to a weary halt next to him, hands on his knees and breathing heavily. Brutus looked across at the man. Caninius was a good enough commander, but old-school. He remained at his command post and directed things through tribunes, relying on his centurions to carry out the battle at ground level. And yet the legate was liberally spattered with blood and muddy to the knees, his sword bloodied in his hand and a bandage tightly bound round his upper left arm blossoming pink to show the severity of the wound beneath. For Caninius to be in such a state, things were truly dire.

But then he could see that clearly for himself.

‘What happened to the towers?’

Caninius straightened. ‘You mean why are they empty? Expediency, Brutus. Can’t keep them manned.’

‘But the siege engines…’

‘Were costing us too many men to maintain. The enemy archers just riddle the towers with arrows any time a body appears up there. Didn’t take them long to empty every damn one. And the towers are open structures.’

Brutus peered at them. Each tower stood on four stout legs with a ladder between them reaching to the top platform. He could see the problem instantly from the piles of Roman dead beneath each one. Every man who’d set foot on the ladders had died before reaching the engines. In the end, Caninius had abandoned the artillery in favour of preserving his men. Not a foolish decision, in retrospect.

‘I’ve got four more cohorts coming to support you,’ Brutus said in what he hoped were encouraging tones.

‘Lambs to the slaughter,’ Caninius replied bleakly. ‘Labienus’ five cohorts are already so diminished you can’t tell they ever arrived! The man himself is up on the walls taking his sword and pugio to the enemy. I will be again, when I’ve taken a sip of water.’

It was true. As Brutus looked along the wall, the defenders were all too thin on the ground. It did not look like a position that had been reinforced with two thousand men only half an hour ago.

‘Then let’s not dally and disappoint, Caninius. Take your sip and meet me back on the walls. Time to wet my blade and see how many I can send to their gods before more reinforcements turn up to take all the glory.’

The four cohorts he had brought were here now, filtering into centuries and making for positions on the wall wherever they could. With a roll of his shoulders, Brutus drew his gladius and pugio and ran towards the wall, sending up prayers as he went, nodding to the strangely skeletal, grinning auxiliary who was also moving into position at the rampart.

* * * * *

Fronto turned and shouted to the men behind him. ‘Get that wagon bed over here now!’

The contubernium of legionaries from the Fourteenth who’d so recently arrived courtesy of Brutus struggled with the huge oaken platform, shorn of its axles and wheels and shaft, dragging it towards the barrier and leaving a muddy trench in the turf with its passage. As it closed on the barricade, half a dozen legionaries jabbed at the two-foot hole the enemy had hacked in the upturned cart there, repeatedly stabbing into the gap with their pila, spearing any of the attacking Gauls who dared attempt to widen it any further. Despite their success rate, as attested by the endless screaming and the lake of blood forming around the ruined cart, the enemy were still succeeding, the hole increasing every heartbeat with an axe or sword blow or even the grasping of frenzied, bloodied fingers.

The redoubt was holding better than Fronto could ever have hoped, given the pressure it was under. Yet it still remained in peril every single moment of the long afternoon, and one hiccup would be all it took to lose it all. And if the gate fell then the camp fell, and with it the entire Roman defensive system.

No pressure, then.

Fronto watched the men move the heavy oak bed into place and begin to drag across the adzed logs that had originally been meant for a stockade, piling them behind it to strengthen the newly-repaired barricade. With a sigh of relief, he climbed up to the top and ducked the expected scything blow, stabbing out instinctively with his crimson-slick gladius and half-decapitating the unarmoured Gaul.

The ‘U’ of the gate was still full of the enemy. Beyond, he could see many, many more swarming at the rampart, which that same centurion was still defending with steady strength and control, and yet more were flooding the circumvallation defences where they touched the camp, attempting to break through there as well. Units of the Fifteenth and the Ninth held that sector desperately. Only the enforced enclosure of the gate had kept Fronto’s barricade from falling through sheer numbers, funnelling the enemy to him and limiting his opposition at any given time.

Yet the large piles of dead only a dozen paces inside the camp and the gathering number of wounded moaning at one another back among the tents spoke of the dreadful cost of holding the gate.

Already he would like to see more reinforcements, troop numbers here beginning to decline noticeably. He jumped back down and scanned the chaos until he spotted one of the numerous runners, clutching a wax tablet as though his life depended upon it, which it well might, of course.

‘You.’

The man stopped. ‘Sir?’

‘Tell Caesar we need more men.’

The runner gave Fronto a look that spoke volumes about how many times he’d been stopped by an officer in the last half hour with the very same message, but to his credit, he did not argue, simply saluting and running off on his errand. Wiping a mix of foul liquids from his face, Fronto jogged back to the rampart and climbed to where the centurion stood, his ears picking up distant calls from a Roman cornu as he did so.

‘Hear that?’ he asked the centurion.

‘Deployment calls,’ the officer replied, rubbing tired eyes.

‘Yes. The Eighth and the Thirteenth if I’m not mistaken, down on the plain. Caesar gathers fresh men to his own position.’

‘And to ours,’ the centurion said with audible relief, jabbing out with a finger back towards the south gate. Fronto turned and heaved in a much needed cleansing breath. ‘That’s Fabius,’ he noted, recognising the figure in the grey cloak with the white plume and the small skewbald horse. ‘And… what? Six more cohorts?’

‘I count the standards of seven, sir.’

Fronto squinted and smiled. ‘I do believe you’re right. Caesar reinforces his own position because he’s sent us more of his men. Good boy,’ he grinned, noting the look of disapproval on the centurion’s face at such an appellation applied to the proconsul. ‘I wonder how many men we’ll get this time. Should buy us some time.’

The centurion nodded sombrely, his gaze slipping back over the camp to the distant western horizon. ‘I hope the general has something up his sleeve though, sir. Another hour and a half — two at the most — and that sun’s going to sink, and with it go our chances.’

Chapter 24

Varus huffed and chewed his lip as he stood at the command post in the centre of the plains sector. Next to him, Quadratus sat disconsolately, trying with difficulty to tear apart a piece of stale, worm-eaten bread with his one good arm, the other bound up and slung at his chest. The medicus had grumbled about the cavalryman yanking out the arrow that had impaled his arm, but it seemed there was no permanent damage. Enough to keep Quadratus out of action for the rest of the season, though. It would have irritated Varus to lose his most able officer were it not for the fact that all the cavalry sat idle anyway between the Roman fortifications, nice and safe and bored, while the infantry fought for their survival.

‘Maybe you should throw your men into the wall defences?’ the sub-commander mused.

‘The general already refused that. I offered, but he wants the cavalry in reserve.’

‘No use being reserves while the defences fall, though.’

Varus grunted his agreement and watched as another of the artillery towers fell silent, Gallic archers from the reserve force outside having raked it clear of life with their constant flurries and kept the ladder under attack so that no Roman could reach the scorpion above. All along the plains sector the story was the same: hard-pressed legionaries fighting what appeared to be a losing battle. The supplies of pila had gone and few men on the walls now had any kind of missile to cast down or shoot. The Roman defenders had fallen back upon sword and shield at the fence, which meant the enemy were so close at all times that they could feel one another’s breath.

‘Soon they’ll be down to hitting each other with rocks,’ Quadratus muttered, as if reading his commander’s thoughts, and Varus sighed. ‘It’s looking bleak. And we’ve an hour perhaps 'til sunset.’

A series of calls from a cornu across the plain noted the distribution of the reserves from the Eighth and Thirteenth around the twin ramparts, and the new arrivals created a temporary reprieve for their comrades as they cast their pila straight away and pushed back the waves of attackers, only for the tide of Gallic life to immediately flow back against the fence.

The two officers scanned the area irritably and caught sight of Antonius and Caesar riding through the chaos towards them, the ever-present Aulus Ingenuus and his Praetorian horse alongside. Varus and Quadratus hauled themselves wearily to their feet and saluted the army’s most senior officers.

‘Varus,’ Caesar greeted him quietly. ‘The time has come. All reserves from the system are now committed on the plains and on Mons Rea. I have no more legions to call, and the light is leaving us. I must finish this now, before darkness falls.’

Varus nodded, sensing the call to action in the general’s words.

‘The plains are bolstered by the new arrivals,’ Caesar continued. ‘I will ride for Mons Rea, where I believe the battle will be broken one way or the other. There are two redoubts on the hill and one between here and Mons Rea. I should be able to draw four cohorts from them to take to the camp.’

‘Leaving the walls on the hill poorly-manned,’ reminded Antonius quietly, but Caesar brushed it aside.

‘I will take those four cohorts and attempt to win the day at Mons Rea. I will be taking most of the cavalry with me. They are — as you so helpfully noted — largely ineffectual between the ramparts, but word is that the enemy are already breaching the north wall of the Mons Rea camp, and if they are inside the fort, the cavalry can do their work well.’ The general looked appraisingly at Quadratus. ‘Can you ride and fight?’

‘Not well enough, general,’ Varus cut in. ‘Most of the cavalry?’

‘Yes, a good part of them. Two of the three wings.’ The general turned to the men behind him. ‘Antonius? You’re an experienced cavalryman. You command that force. Ingenuus here will commit the entire Praetorian unit alongside you.’ The bodyguard officer opened his mouth to object but Caesar overrode him. ‘No. I realise that I will be in danger, but if we lose this fight, we’re all doomed anyway, so I need to commit every man I have, and your horsemen are the best the army has to offer. You will commit to battle in the camp.’

Ingenuus nodded, looking less than happy with his lot. Varus was still frowning.

‘And what of me then, and the rest of the cavalry?’

‘You, Varus, are to be my surprise. I want you to take the remaining wing and the German cavalry and head back south, in an almost complete circuit of Alesia. When you reach Labienus’ camp to the north, you will be far from any of the action. There, you can cross the circumvallation and manoeuvre outside.’

Varus broke into a grin. ‘I like the sound of it, general.’

‘You will have to be as quick as you can and as subtle, too. It’s a long ride to get round and out of the defences unseen, and if you are spotted too early, the whole plan might fail. We will fight on as we must and wait for your hopefully timely arrival.’

Varus faltered for a moment as he turned.

‘Perhaps you would be better taking the Germans with you inside, general?’ he prompted, trying not to sound hopeful.

‘No. You take them. They have proved to be a vital force against the Gauls repeatedly this year, time and again. You will need the fear and chaos they bring with them if you are to break this.’

Varus nodded and saluted.

‘Go then, commander. You know what you must do.’

Caesar and Antonius watched the eager cavalry commander run off towards his signifers, who were standing in a knot telling stories, and then turned to one another. ‘Can we do it?’ the general breathed quietly to his friend, so that no others nearby might overhear. Antonius broke into a quirky half-smile. ‘We can’t crush them — we don’t have the numbers. But they have to be as spent as our own men, in both strength and morale. If we break today, the siege is over. But if they break, they will lose. It’s that simple. We just have to make them yield before our own men collapse.’

The general raised an eyebrow. ‘Nowhere in that oratory did I hear a yes.’

‘Nor did you hear a no, Gaius. Come on. We have troops to raise.’

* * * * *

Fronto ducked a sweeping blow and clutched his wounded forearm, a deep cut still pouring out blood where his shield had been brutally hacked from his arm. One of the capsarii had tried to drag him back from the fight to bind it twice but Fronto had pushed the man away, suggesting with some rather colourful language that the medic might be more useful drawing a sword and killing a few Gauls.

Of his singulares, only Masgava and Aurelius remained at the barricade, which had now been reinforced and bulked up on four separate occasions and was still weakening with every axe blow from the far side. The rest of his bodyguard were back at the makeshift hospital, sporting a variety of wounds, though none of them, miraculously, life threatening. It seemed they had listened to his order to stay alive, after all.

What was even more miraculous was that the makeshift redoubt was holding at all. The light was beginning to dim, which meant that the battle here had been raging for half a day without reprieve. The gates had held for a matter of mere moments, but this wall of carts, crates and sacks had kept many thousands of screaming rebels at bay for — what, six hours? Seven, perhaps.

The regular feeds of reinforcements had been critical to that, mind. Without those men sent by Labienus, Brutus and Caesar, the gate would have fallen long ago. To his left, just past Aurelius, who was barely recognisable beneath a sheet of blood, stood an optio who had arrived with his centurion under Labienus’ command hours ago. Less than an hour after that he had unfastened his crest ties, making use of the new, almost Gallic-style helmet he wore with the multiple crest fasteners to swivel the red horsehair arc through ninety degrees, taking on the role of the centurion who now lay a dozen paces behind them among the piles of honoured dead. Fronto couldn’t remember what legion the young man was from but he fought like a lion, with the tenacity and inventiveness of a gladiator and, had he not been planning to retire after this battle, Fronto would have been seeking the man’s transfer into the Tenth.

A spear lanced out towards him, clipping the ravaged and torn timber frame of the cart behind which Fronto stood, and he knocked it aside with his wounded arm, hissing at the pain that rippled through it as he drove his gladius into the Gaul’s throat, twisted and withdrew, watching the body fall away only to be replaced immediately by another.

A call went up away across the camp, and it was only on the third repeat that Fronto paused, having dispatched another enemy, and frowned.

‘Shit. That call!’

The centurion nodded, struggling with a Gaul and finally forcing him back. ‘Sounds like they’ve breached the north rampart, sir.’

Fronto spared a heartbeat to glance in that direction, but from this angle he could see nothing, the ordered rows of tents filling the intervening space. The call had been clear enough. A rally to repulse meant that the Gauls had managed to cross the rampart somewhere. But why had Labienus not reacted. The senior officer had quite clearly told Fronto that the Bacchanalia chant would be blown in case of a serious breach and the army would form up for a last sally. Had the breach not been serious enough to warrant it? Or had something happened to Labienus? Fronto ground his teeth. It was all well and good holding this position, but he had to know what was going on elsewhere. Reaching a decision, he turned to the recently-promoted centurion.

‘Can you hold here without me and these two?’

The look that passed across the centurion’s face was one of uncertainty, which Fronto could quite understand and sympathise with, but it was quickly swept aside and replaced by grim acceptance.

‘We’ll hold this ‘til even Minerva’s bones are dust, sir.’

Fronto smiled. ‘Good man. Fortuna be with you.’

‘And with you, legate.’ The centurion had no chance for further exchange, a Gaul attempting to clamber over the top of the barricade requiring all his attention. Fronto stepped back from the barricade, gesturing for Masgava and Aurelius to join him. The beleaguered soldiers at the redoubt immediately shuffled up to close the gap, never letting up in their staunch defence as they did so.

The three men sheathed their swords and stepped back inside the camp to where their horses were tethered, along with those belonging to the wounded singulares. As soon as he left the barricade, the capsarius caught him again and, even as Fronto shouted at the man, he slapped a vinegar-soaked sponge into the open cut on the forearm, causing Fronto to let forth a sharp bellow and a series of unpleasant expletives. The capsarius ignored the legate as he howled and his good hand went to the dagger at his belt, wrapping a bandage around the wound and binding it tight, tying it off at the end with professional, practiced ease. Fronto threw him a murderous look, the dagger half-drawn before he snicked it back into its sheath. The medic smiled. ‘At least you won’t bleed out, legate.’

‘You might, if you try that again.’

But the capsarius was already running off to help another man who’d fallen back from the barricade, and Fronto joined his singulares at the steeds, hurriedly untying the reins and then hauling himself into the saddle, grunting at the pain in his arm, but reluctantly acknowledging the good work of the medic.

‘Where are we bound?’ Masgava asked.

‘North wall. There’s been a breach and Labienus hasn’t reacted. I want to know what’s going on.’

The three men heeled their horses and rode off through the chaos of wounded men and supply dumps, between the lines of tents and towards the site of the main battle. Fronto hoped fervently that the young centurion he’d just left could hold that gate. It would be little use recovering the north rampart if the southeast gate was overrun. The camp was under too much pressure.

Precious moments passed as the three men passed the leather tents and burst out into the open area at the north end of the camp. The sight that greeted Fronto was heart-stopping.

The nearest rows of tents to the wall had been cleared out of the way by enterprising wounded officers and their stumbling, bleeding men, and a low barricade of junk had been hastily raised, half a dozen scorpions from the reserve supplies set up along the line, manned and stocked with ammunition. Men who were clearly novices at the art held the spare bows that had been dug out from somewhere and their arrows protruded from the junk wall before them ready to be nocked and loosed.

This was the last line. The desperate one. Manned by the sick and the injured and making use of whatever could be found, for the wounded had seen the rampart give four times now and had decided they had to do something.

The north wall itself was no longer visible. Even the towers had suffered, every third or fourth one having been brought down somehow. Fronto had expected to see beleaguered legionaries atop the parapet, fighting off an external sea of Gauls, as at the southeast. But the defensive line here was now an arbitrary thing, much of the fighting going on inside the camp. Every now and then a Gaul would break free of the struggle, already inside the camp’s confines, and run for the tent lines. When that happened, the wounded let fly with whatever they had, putting the incursions down. But the number of Gauls inside the camp was growing even as Fronto watched, and the ever-changing line of defence was gradually moving back towards the ‘wounded wall’. The camp was a dozen heartbeats from lost.

Selecting a spot where the low barricade was scarcely manned, Fronto and his singulares jumped across, into the open ground before the seething fight that covered the rampart all across the north of the camp. His searching eyes picked out a small knot of men, amid which a flowing crimson horsehair crest protruded from a gleaming decorative helmet, and he thundered off towards what was plainly a senior officer, his men at his back.

As they neared the small group, which was composed largely of runners, centurions, tribunes and signifers, Fronto spotted the familiar face of Caninius, the legate of the Twelfth and commander of the Mons Rea camp. The legate was soaked in blood and spattered with gore, as were many of his officers and Fronto was impressed to see how the man had clearly become involved at the basest level of the action along with his troops. He reined in nearby and slid from the horse’s back, grunting at the pain in his arm as he did so.

‘Fronto,’ Caninius breathed. ‘What news of the south?’

‘The other gates still hold. Looks like you’re in the shit up here, though.’

The conversation was briefly interrupted as a small force of Gauls managed to break away from the main fight and run for the knot of officers, hungry to kill Roman commanders. A few free legionaries managed to pull out of the combat and chase them down, and the wounded artillerists put a few shots into the band as they ran, but still there were five of them when they reached the small group. Fronto watched in surprise as Caninius’ aquilifer swung the glorious, irreplaceable eagle of the Twelfth and stoved in the head of one of the men, righting the pole again to display an eagle drenched in blood and spattered with brain matter. Two tribunes attempted to halt the rest, and one of the Gauls had almost reached Fronto even before he’d managed to draw his sword.

Caninius, whose blade was already out and bloodied, stepped in and neatly sank his gladius into the Gaul’s side as Fronto braced himself, twisting and withdrawing with such casualness that Fronto wondered just how long the legate had been fighting here to become so calm in the face of that kind of brutality. He almost smiled. That was probably how everyone else saw the legate of the Tenth, in fact.

As the attack was put down and one of the tribunes went about the fallen Gauls making sure they were dead while the other clutched what looked distinctly like a fatal belly-wound to Fronto, the legate shook his head and focused on his opposite number from the Twelfth.

‘Where’s Labienus?’

‘Somewhere in that,’ Caninius replied, thumbing over his shoulder towards the seething fight at the rampart. ‘Reginus is there somewhere too, as well as Brutus. It’s a damn mess, Fronto. There are just too many. The walls won’t hold them.’

‘I can see that.’

As Fronto watched the fight in consternation, wondering how best to proceed, his eyes picked out three figures emerging from the press. At the centre, Labienus was staggering, blood-spattered and shieldless, his sword still in his hand. To either side of him came a legionary in a similar state and Fronto jogged across to meet him as he made his way into the open space. Behind them, at the rampart, another breakout of Gauls made for the retreating officer, but was quickly swamped by legionaries. It was only a matter of time now before the whole camp was overrun.

‘Labienus!’

He came to a halt in front of the staff officer, his singulares at his shoulders.

‘Hmm?’ Labienus’ eyes came up to meet Fronto’s but there seemed to be no mind behind that vacant gaze. It was then Fronto noted the huge dent in the officer’s helmet and as the two legionaries carefully undid the strap and lifted the bronze headpiece from him, blood trickled from Labienus’ ear. He was clearly stunned from the blow. Hopefully not in mortal danger, but certainly not much use right now.

‘Labienus. The walls are breached. Do you order the sally?’

The staff officer attempted to focus on Fronto’s face and the legate saw a brief flash of recognition as Labienus attempted to pull his thoughts together.

‘Sally. Breach. Mmmm.’

‘Titus! Concentrate. Do we sally north?’

‘N… no. No. I… no.’

Fronto frowned. The officer was clearly incapable of making the decision right now. But shaking his head in confusion, Labienus raised his hand and pointed back into the camp. Fronto turned at the gesture and felt his heart leap.

Several new cohorts of men, apparently drawn from at least five legions and mixed in together, from the standards, were moving up from the tents, passing the rough second rampart of wounded artillerists and archers. Amid the line, he could see Caesar in his gleaming armour with his crimson cloak whipping about. The general, always one to know how to motivate his men, had slipped from his horse among the tents and now marched as part of the line, clearly visible for who he was by that recognisable cloak and yet clearly showing his willingness to be a part of the desperate defence. Fronto felt once again that swell of pride in his general. The man might be a politician to the core and even willing to make unacceptable sacrifices at times, but in a battle there was no better general in all the republic to fight for.

And on the flanks of that force came cavalry. To the left, a wing of auxiliaries and regulars led by the familiar shapes of Antonius and Silanus. To the right another wing, bolstered by Caesar’s own Praetorian horse and apparently commanded by Ingenuus.

Relief! It would not be enough to win the day, mind, a nagging voice in Fronto’s mind noted. Perhaps four more cohorts and two wings of cavalry. But they would hold a lot longer now. Until their arrival it seemed unlikely another quarter hour would pass before the camp fell.

‘Fronto!’ the general shouted as the cohorts moved forward. ‘Move aside, man, there’s work to be done.’

With a grin, Fronto beckoned to one of the tribunes and handed over Bucephalus’ reins. Despite the look of surprise on the man’s face, the tribune grasped the other reins as Aurelius and Masgava handed over theirs too.

‘Get them out of the combat,’ Fronto commanded and ripped his sword from his sheath, falling in with Caninius and his group and waiting for the advancing line of cohorts to reach them and absorb them into the front line, where two of the army’s legates and several of the most senior staff took their place ready to fight among the foremost men. This was, after all, the last battle they would have to fight, one way or another.

* * * * *

‘Don’t it get strange, sir?’

Atenos, Primus Pilus of the Tenth legion, smashed his sword point into the inner thigh of a rebel attempting to clamber over one of the few sections of rampart that had not yet given way. He felt the jet of warm, tinny liquid from the opened artery as the howling warrior fell back into the throng, and glanced at the young optio at his side. He was getting sick of field promotions. On this one afternoon, he had confirmed the position of three replacement centurions and his own century had seen four new optios appointed in as many hours. They kept dying like flies no matter how big and muscular they were. His latest choice had been made in a free heartbeat in the press, and seemed in retrospect too young to be wearing a toga, let alone commanding men.

‘What?’

‘Fightin’ your own, sir?’

‘My own?’ Atenos looked out across the sea of violent Gallic ire before him.

‘These aren’t my people, Optio.’

‘But they are Gauls, sir.’

‘I’m a Roman, lad. Note the uniform. And before that I was Leuci. This lot in front of us are Pictones I’d say, from the tattoos.’ He paused in the conversation to scythe the jaw from a warrior with swirling blue-grey patterns on his bare chest, while the optio fought off a young warrior in a green tunic. ‘I’m about as related to these bastards as you are to a Sicilian olive farmer.’

The optio slashed out at another man and carved a slice from a lunging arm, his screaming victim disappearing back into the press. The lad was apparently good with a sword, Atenos noted. Perhaps that was why he’d subconsciously selected him?

‘Didn’t mean to offend sir, sorry.’

‘No offence, lad. Just remember: whether I came from Gaul or Rome or your sister’s arse, what I am above all else is a centurion!’

He returned a strike from a hopeful Gaul and used his shield to push the man back down, then turned back to talk to the optio, but the young man was gone, shaking and moaning on the floor, his face almost entirely missing. Atenos sighed with regret as he realised that this section of rampart was almost untenable now. The fighting was about to move back into the camp here too. Even with the new cohorts Caesar and Fronto had brought, Mons Rea was about to fall. The Roman cavalry that had arrived with the officers had helped prevent the enemy from penetrating deep into the camp, but soon they too would be swamped, difficult as it was for horse to manoeuvre in such confines.

‘Sir!’ called a voice from three men down the struggle, and Atenos focussed on the beleaguered legionary, busy slamming his shield rim into the face of a Gaul.

‘Yes, optio?’

The legionary stared for a moment at the sudden promotion, and then broke into a grin.

‘Look, sir!’

Atenos followed the soldier’s gesture and his gaze fell on the sea of Gauls before them, roiling like the great Atlantic Ocean in a winter storm, waves crashing against the ramparts and soaking the defenders in warm, metallic spray. Then his eyes crept across the seething mass and up to the peak of Mons Rea beyond. And to what had crested the hill to the northeast.

A broad grin broke out across Atenos’ face.

‘Fight on, lads. It’s almost over.’

* * * * *

Varus felt the oddest mix of exultation and fear.

The moment he and the reserve cavalry had crested the northern heights of Mons Rea it was instantly apparent that they were in time. Just in time, but in time, nonetheless. The enemy force swarmed across the northern ramparts of the camp and against the circumvallation ramparts to either side, but they had been held back there and had not flooded into the centre of the Roman system.

The huge wing of horse had moved at a slow, quiet pace south from their original position to the foot of the Gods’ Gate mountain and then disappeared east, staying close to the Osana River and moving in groups to prevent them being seen as a strong force mounting the hillside. As soon as he’d judged that they were far from the sight of the enemy on the plains, he’d gathered them all together again, racing as fast as they could realistically hold together as a formation, and then rounding the eastern promontory of Alesia. Then, far from the action, they had climbed to Labienus’ camp atop the ‘Warm Hill’ as it was known. There a single century held the camp, looking bored so far from the fighting, and they had exhibited a great deal of surprise to find thousands of cavalry passing through the camp and out onto the hillside beyond.

Their speedy ride had taken them west, then, from the Warm Hill camp, down across a valley, where the fort of the Ninth and Fourteenth also languished under a skeleton guard, watching the huge cavalry contingent pass with interest, and then up to the rear of Mons Rea, an echo of the manoeuvre in which the Gauls had launched their own assault half a day earlier.

It had been blinding as the horsemen had risen up the slope and finally crested it into the golden orb of the dying sun which dazzled them as they rode towards it and then down to the beleaguered Roman camp.

Exultation, because they were in time.

Fear. Not because of the sea of Gauls that awaited them. After all, Varus had fought such armies many times now, and the Gauls held no fear for him, even this apparent new-breed who liked tricks and traps and Roman-style tactics. Especially since their horse were all down on the plains threatening the circumvallation there, and all his cavalry faced here were infantry, who were already tired and hard-pressed.

No. The fear he felt was an entirely different beast.

In numerous engagements now, as Caesar had pointed out, the thousand-strong German cavalry had turned the tide and saved the day. They had been trained by Varus’ best and wore Roman equipment — the best available. And yes, they were the more brutal of the peoples from beyond the Rhenus, but still what made them so effective? Varus had decided the time had come to find out, and so he had devolved overall command of the cavalry force to young Volcatius Tullus, commander of the Third Wing, while he had taken position with the Germans.

They had looked not unlike the usual auxiliary cavalry — the native levies often drawn from Belgic tribes who were not all that far removed from their Germanic neighbours. Apart from the slightly better equipment and often having a good half-foot of height on the rest of the force, and a good three hands extra on their horses, they appeared surprisingly similar. And yet they were in truth an entirely different matter.

Their senior officer — apparently a chieftain in their own lands — went by the name of Sigeric, and his grasp of Latin was limited to little more than commands and a few basic verbs and nouns. Yet the monstrous commander with a crease across the centre of his face, reputedly from an axe blow that had failed to penetrate his fabulously thick skull, welcomed Varus into his force with a laugh that rumbled like the collapse of quarries. The unit all bore familiar Roman cavalry helms, many with the featureless, dread-inspiring steel face-plates, but not Sigeric. He wore no helm nor mask, for his head, he said, was thicker than any helm, and his countenance more fearsome than any mask. Varus found the sentiment hard to deny. The man’s hair was beginning to turn grey, confirming his advancing age, but curiously, the left side of his head had remained a copper-blond, while the right had almost entirely silvered. He cut an odd and slightly horrifying figure even without his sword, which had been forged by his own blacksmith and was more than a foot longer than any similar blade Varus had seen. The man also wore a necklace of pierced teeth around his neck which did little to add culture and comfort to his appearance.

As they had crested the hill, the man had pulled something from his belt with his left hand. Shieldless and with his sword in his right, the big German steered his beast purely with his knees. Varus had frowned at the odd thing the German chief brought forth. It looked like a long knife, but with twin parallel blades, each bent at the end into a razor-edged hook.

And then, before he could query the man, Sigeric had roared some Germanic, guttural noise and his horsemen had kicked their steeds into a charge before even Volcatius Tullus had the chance to have his signaller blow the call. Varus found himself almost lost amid the big men on their bigger horses, feeling curiously short and odd as he raced into battle.

The effect of their surprise attack was both instant and horrific.

The panic that swept through the Gallic reserve army was palpable and, Varus noted, seemed to be almost entirely aimed at the German cavalry, rather than the much more numerous auxilia and regulars under Volcatius Tullus.

And as the riders ploughed into the rear ranks of the Gaulish army, Varus began to understand. As the old saying went — well, paraphrased anyway — you could take the warrior out of Germania, but you couldn’t take Germania out of the warrior. This force may be kitted out in the best Roman equipment available, and trained by Roman cavalrymen, but they were no more Roman at heart than Varus was German.

And in much the same way as the more brutal of the Germanic tribes, this bunch apparently felt no fear whatsoever. They would cheerfully charge into the mouth of Hades itself, determined to rip the balls from Cerberus with their teeth. Their bloodthirsty enthusiasm was tangible, and if Varus could feel it riding with them — in fact, almost succumbing to it by sheer proximity — then he could only imagine what it felt like to the Gauls they were riding down.

The Germans ploughed into the infantry like a sword through butter, barely slowing as they chopped, slashed, speared, jabbed, sliced and kicked their way. The horses — Germanic steeds of their own selection — trampled the unwitting and more than once Varus saw the animals lunge down and bite the enemy, something he’d never seen a horse do in his life.

As he watched, Sigeric turned from a German officer into a howling, lustful battle demon. That strange, twin hooked knife rose and came down, slamming into a panicked Gaul’s throat and the big chieftain roared and hauled it up. The hooks caught on the unfortunate Gaul’s chin, shredding his neck like an old, weatherworn curtain and, accompanied by a roar and a yank of arms with muscles like anvils, Sigeric ripped the half-severed head from the body, shattered vertebrae falling away and bouncing from his horse’s flank. In shock, Varus turned away only in time to see one of the other Germans gripping a poor Gaul’s wrist in his teeth, gnawing the arteries as he sawed through the elbow with his sword.

Varus felt sick. And faint. Everywhere he looked, acts of the most appalling barbarism were being perpetrated. These were not cavalry. These were animals!

No wonder the Gauls ran when they saw the Germans. After facing this lot once or twice, no man in his right mind would want to stand and take them on a third time.

The Gaulish army had lost in that instant.

The force that had been pushing to cross the north rampart of Mons Rea disintegrated, fleeing wherever they could. It took a matter of heartbeats for word of the cavalry onslaught to reach those in the thick of it. The men outside the camp on the periphery of the battle turned and fled, heedless of the dangers all around them, desperate to be away from the scene and making for the reserve camp on the hill.

The Germans were enjoying themselves, and every scene of their enjoyment threatened to make Varus’ gorge rise. Gulping in a bloody breath, the commander fought the urge to vomit and tried to move out to the open, away from the carnage and the charnel mess. Sigeric was in the way. The Roman officer couldn’t even see the rest of his cavalry, though he was sure they were now committed, adding to the destruction. He tried to push his way past Sigeric, trying not to notice what the big man was doing to a shrieking Gaul.

A thrumming noise almost escaped his attention and he didn’t know whether to shout his thanks or simply throw up as Sigeric held out part of a Gaul and used it as a shield to stop the arrow that had been hurtling at Varus, the missile thudding into the meat with an unpleasant noise.

Varus rode away from the slaughter, his face white as a fresh toga.

* * * * *

Molacos the huntsman lowered his bow. Another Roman officer he’d almost had, but the huge brute accompanying the man had stopped the arrow. The Cadurci hunter had dithered for half a heartbeat, wondering whether to try again, but what had been a raging battle was now turning into a slaughter. He was a hunter — a man of skill and finesse — not a meat-sack warrior. Thick battle was not his forte. He would have left the fight even were his people winning, but that was clearly no longer the case. The day was all but lost as the sun’s lowest arc touched the western hill. Time to find Lucterius. Molacos had managed to break out of Alesia, cross the inner wall at that broken gate, and slip through the northern rampart once the line had collapsed and the fighting had spread everywhere. Now he was free.

Ignoring the fighting going on around him, he slipped the Roman bow he’d picked up from a supply spot in the camp over his shoulder and instead drew his knife. He turned to head into the sunset, only to find a dismounted Roman cavalryman, shieldless and out of breath, in front of him. The Roman looked as surprised at the sudden meeting as he, and Molacos raised his knife even as the Roman brought his sword round to bear. The hunter was faster and much more accurate, though, his knife hitting the roman in the chin, the point jabbing up and through the mouth, into the brain and killing him.

But the cavalryman’s blow had begun and death would not slow the momentum.

The Roman sword smashed across Molacos’ face, sending him blind with blood and a shockwave of agony through his head. Desperate suddenly to be away from this nightmare, Molacos staggered, his face burning, blinking and hoping not to die.

Gradually, as he moved into the growing shadows away from the melee, the blood slick cleared from his eyes and he could see a little. Only one eye seemed to be working properly, and his left hand side was a vague pink-grey blur of liquid. His hand probed his face as he moved and he realised quickly that it was ruined. He’d never been pretty, and he knew that, but he recognised with equal certainty that he had been made hideous this day.

Cursing the world, and war, and Rome — mostly Rome — Molacos staggered off into the evening, searching for his master.

* * * * *

Cavarinos blinked.

His world hurt. His head felt as though horses had ridden across it.

Where was he?

He tried to rise, but his body appeared not to be working. His limbs felt like lead. It took him a long moment of realisation to figure out that he was beneath something. Several somethings, in fact.

He was at the bottom of a pile of bodies.

His head truly hurt, and he could feel the sharp pains of innumerable cuts and minor wounds across his body as he tried to free himself from the pile. An image struck him. A big, dark-skinned fist with knuckles like ox-shoulders coming for him. Fronto’s man. Memory flooded into him along with the endless pains. He knew he should feel angry, or glad, or indignant, or vengeful, or at least something. All he felt was tired.

After what felt like an hour of heaving and pushing, accompanied by the snapping of already-dead bones, Cavarinos extricated himself from the pile to discover that the sun had set. The inky purple of evening was cast above him, and the sounds of battle had gone.

It was over. How had they fared?

With difficulty — and apparently an arrow in the calf, which burned like crazy — Cavarinos hauled himself upright. A few tired-looking Romans lined the walls nearby, which answered his question eloquently.

That was it, then. He knew as well as anyone that the besieged army didn’t have another fight left in them. The battle was over. The war was over. His eyes scanned the land around him and he had to blink away the pain as his leg almost gave under him. Lights were winking into existence up at the oppidum. Some of the army had escaped there then, so that would be his destination. To starve or surrender or just charge to his doom with the rest of them as whoever now led the rebels decided.

The arrow had only cut through his flesh, scraping bone but leaving the muscle intact, and he found he could walk with a small amount of pain and difficulty. He reached down and snapped the shaft, drawing it out with a whimper of pain and then binding his leg with a dirty rag torn from one of the numerous bodies in the gateway. The Romans weren’t watching him here. How would he flee? His hand reached up and he found the somehow comforting shape of Fortuna still at his neck. He gripped it tight as he stepped out from the bodies and limped and staggered through the gate, having to use the timbers to support himself.

Then he was out into the evening and the open grass, strewn with hundreds and hundreds of his countrymen. It was a soul-destroying sight. So much Gallic life spent on this one day in pursuit of a dream that had now evaporated as the tribes woke from their blissful fantasies to find the Roman boot on their throat with more weight than ever.

Over. He turned to look at the Romans on the wall. The artillery was unmanned. None of the few soldiers seemed to have a bow or pilum. They mostly leaned on the fence as though they had survived a trip through Hades, which perhaps they had.

And so, seemingly, had he. He heard one of the Romans call to another, and they were pointing at him. Cavarinos turned his back on them. If he was going to die, watching it coming would make no difference. But no pilum came, nor arrow, nor bullet as he staggered painfully back across the ground and up the slope to the oppidum and to the last night of the rebellion, as he saw it.

Tonight, the war was over.

Perhaps tomorrow the peace could begin?

* * * * *

Fronto stood with half a dozen fellow officers, his singulares — both intact and wounded — gathered around him. Everyone looked equally exhausted. He had gone back to the gate as soon as the fighting was completely done and he’d had the leisure to do so, but could find no sign of Cavarinos. That might be a good sign, but there were enough unrecognisable bodies — and body parts — that he couldn’t be sure.

And now Antonius was passing around the wine that he could only have had on him, somewhere at his belt, even during the nightmare of the fight at the northern wall. Every man drank deep, and some poor soldier that Antonius had grabbed as he passed was even now hunting all the camp’s supplies for more.

‘Tonight, my friends, I intend to get drunk,’ Caesar’s second grinned.

‘That’ll be a feat. Two years now of downing your own bodyweight in wine and I’ve never seen you manage to get properly bollocksed yet!’

Antonius laughed lightly. ‘I save the silly stuff for the girls, Fronto. Men drink like men.’

The officers fell silent as they watched a small party approach in the gloom of the evening, their features only coming clear as they passed into the torchlight. Labienus, still caked in gore, was accompanying a party of legionaries as they hauled some Gallic noble, his arms bound behind his back and a horizontal pole beneath his arms keeping him upright.

‘Looks important,’ Fronto noted.

Labienus nodded. ‘Vergasillaunus, apparently. The rebel king’s cousin who led the attack on the north wall. Caesar will want to meet him, I’m sure.’

‘We didn’t get the king, then?’

‘They say he got away back up to Alesia. Varus and his men have pursued the relief army back up to their hill, but gave off the chase at the bottom of the slope where the treeline stopped them. Not much chance of them managing something like that again, though.’

No, Fronto thought with a sigh of relief.

My last battle…

Chapter 25

Lucterius staggered between the scrub bushes in the last purple glow of evening, his horse long gone — dead on the field from a Roman spear point. Like so many of the relief force’s cavalry, he had ended up fleeing the fight in the chaos that had ensued following the rout at Mons Rea, though most of the rest had still been mounted. The news of the disaster had come through quickly to the attack on the plain, though in truth the situation had already been obvious, since the debacle could be seen easily enough from the flat lands.

Vergasillaunus’ force had been on the cusp of completely overrunning the Roman camp when they had been hit from behind by a cavalry force that had changed the entire fight. For a while, he had not understood how a single cavalry unit — no matter how large — could have changed things so quickly and thoroughly, but someone had mentioned the Germans, and Lucterius had remembered that horrendous force with a shudder. He’d pictured the head-takers ploughing into the rear ranks of the Gallic force and the reason for the rout had immediately become clear.

Still, he’d hoped that Vergasillaunus had enough control and influence to pull victory from the jaws of defeat. After the shock of the attack had died down the Gallic leader should have been able to rally his men — Lucterius had tried the same on the plains — but it seemed that Vergasillaunus had gone and no one else had the strength of character to pull things together. Without that man leading the reserve army, control had devolved to each tribe’s commander and none had the seniority to lead the others. So inevitably the rout had become flight and death and chaos. And because the Mons Rea collapse could not be halted, Lucterius could not persuade the commanders in his own force to hold and keep fighting.

The entire battle stuttered to a halt and became a chaotic debacle on all three fronts, the failure of the critical Mons Rea attack leading to the collapse of the others. As Lucterius’ own troops fled the field, he’d seen across the Roman defences and noticed the first of the Oppidum’s force fleeing back up the slope to Alesia. No hope of success remained. Despite the fact that the Gallic forces still outnumbered the Romans, and had better access to supplies, the battle was lost.

The Romans had been relentless. A larger force of cavalry from inside the camp had joined up with that Germanic surprise attack and between them the entire Roman mounted contingent had harried the Gallic reserve from the field, killing hundreds as they fled. Many of Lucterius’ force escaped to the relief camp before the Romans reached them, but the Cadurci leader himself was among the last, attempting to rally a lost cause, and the Romans had caught him in the open with a few of his best men. He’d lost his horse and the enemy had presumed him dead in the press. He’d had to wait until the Romans had pulled back to their fortifications before rising and dragging himself from the plains and back across the miles to the relief force’s camp on foot.

With a defeated sigh, he began the long climb up the slope, struggling to make out his path in the inky darkness. All was not lost. He would rally the leaders of the reserve army. They might be reluctant still — now more so than ever — but the fact remained that they outnumbered the Romans in total, were still in a better situation for provisions, and they had so nearly won the day. One more fight. The Romans couldn’t take that punishment again, and he knew it. They’d emptied their camps to fight that battle and they couldn’t do it again. They didn’t have the men, the supplies, the defences or the heart any more. One more fight and the tribes could still win it.

Lucterius’ bowels almost gave way as something landed on his shoulder suddenly. He turned, his hand reaching for the sword that wasn’t there, lost somewhere out on the plain. The thing behind him was a creature from nightmare and his heart thundered icy blood round his body. One white eye stared out of a face like chopped meat, the other orb pink and bulging. The mouth was a slanted grinning maw of…

With cold shock he realised that the mouth was not ruined. It had always looked like that, even before… this… had happened to the rest of the face.

‘Molacos?’

‘My king.’ The hunter’s voice came out as a hoarse, metallic rasp, like a saw trying to cut through iron, which send a shudder up Lucterius’ spine. What had happened to the man’s face?

‘Have we lost?’ Lucterius asked in little more than a whisper, unable to take his eyes from the dreadful ruin of his second in command.

‘Never,’ gurgled Molacos. ‘Rome cannot stand. Rome will pay.’

Lucterius nodded. ‘There are healers at the camp. They…’ It seemed a pointless platitude. If the man had survived to flee the field like this then he would live, but no healer short of the gods themselves could fix that face.

Molacos’ one good eye burned with baleful fire, and Lucterius shuddered. ‘Come. Let us turn this disaster around.’

Wearily, the two men clambered up the mile-long slope to the camp of the reserves, now missing a third of its original occupants but still a powerful, if tired and disconsolate, army. They were not even questioned by guards at the camp’s edge as they moved in among the blazing fires, though every warrior they came across, old and young, hale and wounded, turned his face away from Molacos in horror.

Half an hour after they had met on the lowest slope of the hill, the two Cadurci stumbled into the camp of the commanders, where Vergasillaunus had held court with the other leaders these past days. It came as no surprise to see Commius of the Atrebates, former friend of Caesar, sitting in Vergasillaunus’ chair. A number of familiar faces were absent.

‘The Cadurci hero returns,’ sneered Commius. ‘And he brings monsters to our table.’

There was no reaction from Molacos, for which Lucterius was glad. This was a delicate moment. If he was to bring the army and the war back from the brink, it would be no good launching accusations and insults around. Political. That was what he needed to be.

‘The army has lost its heart,’ he said carefully.

‘The army has lost a war,’ snapped Commius in reply.

‘Not so,’ Lucterius said clearly but calmly. ‘We lost a battle. The war goes on. Vercingetorix is still in Alesia. The Romans are still trapped in their forts. We still outnumber them. We are one step away from victory, as we were yesterday, though now it is a shorter step.’

Commius rolled his eyes. ‘Your problem, Lucterius, is that you are a fanatic. You never know when to stop.’

‘And you,’ Lucterius snapped, losing his temper despite his oath not to, ‘are a Roman pet and a coward.’

Commius rose from his seat slowly, glaring at the Cadurci.

‘I will not have you scourged and beaten from the camp for that, in memory of the brave fight you just led on the plains and the fact that you were seen to be the last to flee. But do not push me further. Now that Vercingetorix’s little boy has gone, I am in command here.’

‘Then while you’re standing and not on your fat arse, get among the tribes and rouse their spirits. Tell them that all is not lost. Remind them that we outnumber the Romans and we can still win.’

‘You are a fool, Lucterius. We have lost. It is time to lick our wounds and move out of Caesar’s vengeful eye.’

Lucterius stared. ‘You cannot seriously be suggesting that the army flee?’

‘Not flight, Lucterius. Simply returning to our cities and farms to take up our lives once again and hope that Caesar will be satisfied with the blood of those trapped in the oppidum and leave us to our peace.’

Lucterius took an angry step forward, the hideous monster Molacos at his shoulder, and several Atrebate warriors moved close to Commius, protectively.

‘If you flee then you ruin our chances for good. We have Caesar trapped and fighting for his life. His army cannot repeat what happened today. But if we leave, then he can resupply, feed his men, and will burn Alesia clear of all life. The war will go on either way, but it can either be ended here with relative ease, or it must be prosecuted elsewhere with a great deal more difficulty and uncertainty. Do not waste the only true opportunity we may ever have!’

Commius slowly sank back to his seat.

‘This is over, Lucterius. Take your Cadurci and go home. At sunrise this army disbands.’

The Cadurci chieftain stared at his opponent, and his eyes did a circuit, raking across every other noble and chief at the fire. None of them, barring the leader of the Senones — Drapes, his name was — would meet his belligerent gaze. They were beaten. Lucterius felt the bottom fall out of his world. Nothing he could do would persuade these men. Perhaps if he’d been the first to speak to them after the fight there would have been a chance, but they’d had hours of maudlin talk from Commius now and saw only failure and capitulation.

‘This is not over, Commius. As long as one Cadurci draws breath, the war will go on.’

‘Then you are a fool, Lucterius, and within a season your tribe will be but a memory.’

‘A memory of glory and defiance, rather than treachery, cowardice and surrender,’ spat Lucterius, turning and stomping away from the fire, the ruined Molacos at his side. He had made it perhaps twenty paces from the fire before he became aware of another figure falling in at his other side. He glanced across to see Drapes of the Senones with a thoughtful look on his face.

‘You are serious about carrying on the war?’

Lucterius grunted an affirmative with a nod.

‘You realise that the Arverni king will not be with us?’

‘Perhaps. The Romans will not kill him, though — he is too valuable as a prize. But even if he is crucified, we can still fight on. The Romans are tired and weak. If we can rally the tribes over winter, we will be able to rise again next year, this time with purpose and fury, not caution and subtlety.’

‘The druids might not support us after Vercingetorix’s failure.’

‘Then we will do it without them. This is not over.’ He glanced sidelong at the carved-meat face of his Cadurci friend, who radiated silent malice. ‘No. This is not over by a long way.’

Cavarinos had heaved his way through the western gate of the oppidum in the cold dark of the night and found the first empty house — there were so many now — to collapse in. His night had been fitful and unpleasant, filled with dreams of admonishment and loss, and for some reason punctuated with flashes of Fortuna laughing at him. Then, before the first rays of dawn, he had been struck with a vivid nightmare of battle in which a thousand dark-skinned warriors beat him to death in a brown dusty valley while a thousand glittering Romans looked on and laughed. The killing blow had never landed, though, for Cavarinos had lurched awake, drenched with cold sweat to the sound of a carnyx honking.

He rubbed his eyes and rolled out of bed. As his foot hit the ground and sent a shock up his leg, he remembered the calf wound and moved more carefully. At least his head had stopped hurting and he felt less groggy, the fuzziness that remained merely the product of his bad night.

His tunic and trousers clung to him with cold salty sweat and his hair felt saturated. He rose, trying to pick out what the carnyx call was saying. It was a general call to attendance. Not a battle call, at least. Assuming that whatever it summoned to was no urgent matter, he staggered over to the wall, where the house’s owner had hung a bronze mirror of Roman manufacture — an irony that made him smile despite himself. Peering at his face, he felt a little relieved. There was some mottled bruising where Fronto’s man had hit him, but otherwise he appeared to be whole. Nothing unfixable, anyway, and though the wrapping on his leg was soaked through with blood, as was the bottom of the bed, he had not bled out and he could feel that the wound had clotted and crusted, sticking to the binding.

He looked quizzically at the face before him. In the past few weeks and months he had left his chin hair to grown out again, his beard now as luxuriant and full as it had ever been.

He looked like Critognatos.

With a cathartic breath, he reached for the knife at his belt and, testing the edge, began to methodically shave his chin, then on a whim continued across his cheeks and down his neck until the face that stared back out of the rippled bronze looked more Roman than Gaul. He stared, feeling certain that somehow what he was looking at was the future. It looked and felt surprisingly natural.

The horn blew again, slightly more insistent, and Cavarinos nodded to the stranger in the mirror and turned, limping from the room. Next to the door, the helpful past occupant had left a good quality spear leaning against the wall, and the Arvernian noble grasped it and used it as a crutch to hobble from the house.

The morning was bright and glorious, the sky an unbroken azure and the buzzing of bees and chittering of birds filling the air. It was still very early, barely past dawn from the angle of the light on the buildings of Alesia, and he listened again. The call was coming from the fanum — the sacred space given over to the shrine of Taranis at the highest point of the oppidum. As speedily as he could reasonably manage, given the difficulty of his leg, Cavarinos lurched through the cobbled streets towards the holy site. He was not alone. Numerous stragglers, their faces sewn with defeat and loss, bumbled through the settlement, converging on the call.

The fanum was a wide public square — one of the largest such spaces Cavarinos had ever seen, after the massive example at Bibracte — with three shrines to Toutatis, Taranis and Ogmios. The people of the rebel army filled it from wall to wall, occupying every space, and more folk had climbed up to the sloping portico roof that surrounded it, taking precarious seats where they could to listen to proceedings. Others were gathered at the three entrances to the Fanum, listening through the gaps from outside.

Cavarinos silently pushed past the peripheral figures, leaning on his spear. Despite the density of the crowd his condition, expression, clear rank, and the serpent arm-ring that identified him as Arverni all served to grant him access, people pushing respectfully back to grant him difficult passage.

Finally, he came to a halt next to a large stone block for the tethering of horses, where two young warriors barely old enough to shave shuffled out of the way to allow this wounded noble a seat. Cavarinos nodded his thanks and sank to the stone with a sigh.

Vercingetorix stood before the shrines on a low wooden platform, emitting an aura of authority even now. He was tall and proud, still dressed for battle and spattered with blood as a constant reminder of what he was above all else: a warrior. A strange silence filled the square and Cavarinos sat in it for another quarter of an hour until the public were no longer arriving and shuffling into place. During that time, Vercingetorix’s gaze had passed across him more than twice with no sign of recognition. Of course, his face was discoloured from the bruise and his beard had gone, so among the crowd he would hardly be recognisable. Perhaps that was a good thing?

Finally the king of the Arverni, leader of the war against Caesar, chosen of druids and beloved of the tribes, cleared his throat.

‘You have a decision to make this morning, my friends.’

The silence rushed in as he paused, filling the square with curiosity and tension.

‘I undertook this war, as any who know me will confirm, not for my own glory or for that of my tribe, and not for territory or gold or hostages. I undertook this war, at the behest of the shepherds of the people’ — a brief nod in the direction of a figure in an off-white robe to one side. ‘I undertook this war for the good of all the tribes. For the freedom of all the people from the Roman yoke.’

Again, the silence flooded the square. Even the bees and the birds seemed to have halted their noise to grant audience to the first — and very likely the last — king of a unified Gaul.

‘But fortune is fickle.’

Cavarinos’ hand went to the bronze figurine at his neck and he gripped it so tight that his knuckles whitened.

‘Fortune,’ the king continued, ‘was not with us yesterday. We were within a hair’s breadth of defeating Caesar, and yet the attack collapsed.’

Cavarinos frowned. The king sounded as though he were about to admit defeat. Cavarinos knew they were beaten, of course, and that there was no fight left in the tribes, and the king had said as much before that disastrous battle, but he had never truly believed that Vercingetorix would stop just because there did not seem to be a way out. As long as the reserves on the hill kept the Romans bottled up in their camps, the king that Cavarinos knew would not admit defeat. One of the younger warriors in the square seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion, for he braved the crowd.

‘Next time fortune will favour us, and the gods will watch over us’ the young man shouted into the abyss of silence.

But Vercingetorix was shaking his head.

‘While you, my brave and faithful, lay abed recovering from your wounds and exertions, preparing to take the fight to the Romans once again despite our weakness and hunger, I stood on the western gate this morning and watched the relief force depart.’

A collective, disbelieving groan rippled through the fanum, and an air of hopelessness and despair flooded in, melding with the silence. A lone crow cawed somewhere nearby — one of the few who was not busy down at the battlefield, feasting. The Arvernian king nodded.

‘It is true. Our brothers have abandoned the war. Even after our defeat, last night we outnumbered the Romans by almost two men to one. This morning, we are but a third of their number, and we starve to death with every passing hour.’

‘There must be a way…’ an older warrior with a bandaged arm shouted out.

‘No.’ The king shook his head. ‘This battle is lost and with the withdrawal of the reserves, so is the war. We have reached the end, my friends. All that remains now is to decide how we greet our fate.’

The groan rippled around the square again, and Vercingetorix straightened.

‘Even though Caesar and his wicked politicians are men of cruelty and power, there are honourable souls among the Romans. Perhaps there are ways in which we can reduce the plight of our people.’ The king gestured to the space beside him. ‘My commanders are gone. The chiefs and kings of your tribes. All dead on that field below us. I alone remain as a figure of the will that has brought us to this precipice. I alone stand to atone for our actions that have ruined you, our people.’

This time the groan was disbelieving and refuting. They would not hear such words, clearly.

‘It is true. I alone remain. And I submit to you, the people of the tribes. There is no future to be made in a desperate charge to oblivion on their sharpened stakes and spears. You must bend your knee to Rome and speak their oaths and hope that the honourable men among the serried Roman ranks accept your obeisance in faith.’

Again a negative murmur, but again, Vercingetorix shook his head.

‘I offer myself to Rome in penance for what has happened. I will offer myself to Caesar, to be bound a slave or butchered as a beast at his whim. For in my sacrifice, I may be able to fulfil the general’s lust for blood and divert his fury from you.’

The groan rose once more, but the king was adamant.

‘I have failed you as a leader. I will not fail you as a sacrifice.’

Cavarinos shook his own head now and realised that he had stood unexpectedly.

‘You are not the only chieftain who failed the people, my king.’

Vercingetorix focused on Cavarinos with a frown, and the Arvernian noble saw the dawn of recognition on the king’s face.

‘Who are you?’

The nobleman’s brow furrowed. ‘I am your servant — Cavarinos of the Arverni, chieftain of Nemossos.’

But Vercingetorix was shaking his head, a sharp look directed at him, which dropped to the leather pouch at his belt for a fraction of a moment. ‘I saw Cavarinos of Nemossos fall at the walls. Whoever you are, you’re mistaken and addled.’

Cavarinos opened his mouth to argue, but the look in the king’s eyes was enough to silence him. Vercingetorix was making more than one sacrifice today. The king was unaware that the curse of Ogmios had been used — perhaps he was saving Cavarinos to preserve the curse, and with it a hope for a Gallic future. A vain hope, for the tablet wrapped snugly in the pouch lay in two useless pieces.

‘We must send a deputation to the Romans,’ the king went on, addressing the crowd, ‘baring the shoulder in a sign of peace. Our deputation will offer my life or death as they see fit and demand of Caesar his terms.’ The king fixed Cavarinos with a stare. ‘You, who so wishes to sacrifice yourself alongside me. Will you lead the ambassadors?’

Cavarinos could feel the many layers of depth in the request. It was a task the king would only ask of a man he trusted. It was a way of perhaps securing Cavarinos’ path to freedom as an ambassador or maybe hostage. Was it because the king already knew that Cavarinos had spoken to sympathetic Romans? Or did he expect Cavarinos to have a chance to use his spent curse on the general. He felt sick.

‘If it is your wish, my king,’ Cavarinos sighed unhappily.

He had been there at the beginning, and now it appeared he would be there at the end.

Fronto stood with the other officers as Caesar leaned over the table in the glorious sunlight before his tent. The general was business-like as usual, and despite the common belief that the battle was truly over, the legions had been moved into garrison positions once more, repairing and replacing damaged and broken defences. But the sight this morning of the vast relief army on the hill beyond the plain departing had sent a collective sigh of relief up all across the army.

‘How long do we have?’

The messenger that had interrupted the briefing swallowed nervously. ‘They are just crossing the Osana, general. They will be here in perhaps a quarter of an hour. They are all on horseback.’

The general nodded. ‘When they reach the gates have them wait there if I have not arrived.’

He turned back to the staff as the messenger ran off again.

‘Tell me of the Gallic reserves,’ he asked, gesturing to Varus. The cavalry commander smiled wearily. ‘My scouts say the army split apart into more than a dozen tribes on the far side of the hill and went their separate ways, scattering across the land.’

‘Then we stand little chance of rounding them up,’ Caninius noted.

Caesar brushed the idea aside. ‘They are of little consequence now. Within days they will be nondescript farmers and craftsmen in their own villages. The heart and soul of this rebellion is trapped in Alesia. So long as the reserve have scattered I am content to let them be. Had they remained unified, we might have been forced to deal with them. But…’

He turned to Antonius.

‘What of noble captives?’

‘Twenty three tribal leaders have been identified among the prisoners, including the Arverni king’s cousin, and numerous more among the dead. We’ve taken a total of seventy-four enemy standards, which has to be some kind of record. Better make a big noise about that when you inform the senate of what happened.’

Caesar nodded absently.

‘Make sure the enemy dead are howed up the same as ours and that their nobles are given appropriate honours in the same manner as our deceased officers. We have obliterated Gaul, but let us not anger their Gods any further while we still walk their soil.’ He breathed in deep lungfuls of fresh air. ‘It has been a costly siege, gentlemen. Let us pray to all our patron deities that it is the last such cost we shall be called upon to pay in Gaul.’

‘We’ll find that out soon enough,’ Antonius noted quietly, and Caesar seemed to shake off the cloak of weariness that had covered him this morning.

‘Absolutely. Let us meet the wretched crows from Alesia and see what they have to say.’

The general took a meticulous moment to tidy away his tablets and lists on the table, leaving them guarded by half a dozen of Ingenuus’ praetorians, and then strode away down the slope of the camp atop the Gods’ Gate hill, the officers at his heel and another dozen Praetorians all around.

The north gate of Caesar’s camp gave an impressive and unrestricted view of the oppidum across the Osana valley. Today, for the first time since the Roman ramparts had gone up, not a single column of smoke arose from the roofs of Alesia. A party of perhaps a dozen men rode towards the north gate. They didn’t look particularly powerful or wealthy to Fronto. They looked like peasants.

‘I am here to speak to Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Gaul and Illyricum, on behalf of Vercingetorix, king of the Arverni.’

Fronto frowned at the familiar tone and it took a moment for him to recognise Cavarinos. The man was not adorned with the usual noble accoutrements — just a serpent arm-ring. And he’d shaved off his beard. Much better. Made him look like the civilized man Fronto knew him to be.

Caesar stepped to the parapet above the gate and looked down at the band of mounted peasants below. ‘Are things so bad in the camp of my enemy that he must send the lowest of his men to treat with me?’

Fronto saw Cavarinos struggle for a moment, clenching his teeth. The Arvernian noble’s eyes met Fronto’s almost challengingly, and then he straightened. ‘The lion’s share of our noble blood lies on the plains and at Mons Rea with Roman spears in its chest. The king would hear your terms for his surrender. He hopes that the Romans, who consider themselves noble, and to be the pinnacle of civilization, will agree to terms that will allow for mercy and leniency among the common people of Gaul, who wish for nothing more than to return to their farms and repair the damage this year has done to their livelihoods. Vercingetorix entreats you to exact your vengeance upon he alone and to grant clemency to the former army of the Gaulish tribes.’

Fronto noted the looks of confusion on the other rebels’ faces at the phrases Gaul and Gaulish. None of them thought in such terms. It was a mark of how far ahead Cavarinos’ mind was working. The man was couching the terms in language that would suit the Romans. He turned to Caesar.

‘General, if this is to be the last battle for Gaul, it might be time to start building bridges rather than burning them down.’ The general gave him a sharp look, but he shrugged. ‘Next year, if the land is to become a settled province, then we need the economy to move back onto track. What happens here will carry a message to the whole of Gaul, whatever you decide. It could be a message of oppression and control, or it could be one of encouragement and collaboration.’

Still the general stared at Fronto, and the spell was only broken by Antonius, who leaned close to the general and murmured something quietly that Fronto couldn’t catch but soon had the general giving a curt nod. Caesar leaned forth over the parapet once more.

‘Here are my terms. Any leaders of the tribes that revolted who are not already in our custody will personally deliver Vercingetorix to this camp at noon. They will all take a new oath of allegiance to Rome, though the enemy commander will not be required to do so and will remain my prisoner indefinitely. We have in captivity a number of your warriors, both here, back in Agedincum and Noviodunum, and already at Massilia. I cannot recall the precise number, though it is a high one. Those men were taken in battle and will return to Rome as slaves. I will require that number of captives to be supplemented from the population of the oppidum such that every man in my army who survives this siege will take home the profit of one slave sale. That is, to be clear, each Roman — and each Gallic auxiliary who has served me loyally — will take one slave apiece. Precise numbers will be confirmed by my officers before noon and a messenger sent to you with the details.’

Fronto clenched his teeth. Hardly what he’d been pushing for.

Caesar seemed to note the resentment emanating from his legate and cast a quick sharp glance at Fronto before addressing the enemy again. ‘This is the clemency of Caesar. I had privately vowed that none who fought from that oppidum would live as a free man for their part in the rebellion, so consider this a boon. I will not allow my men to return home empty-handed after all their blood and sacrifice, and so your people will supply the captives required. However, above and beyond that number, the rest of the population atop the hill are free to return to their villages and to till their fields and raise their children safe in the knowledge that Rome will protect them from any further danger.’

He paused. ‘Am I understood?’

Fronto cleared his throat, but Cavarinos flashed him a look and answered quickly. ‘Your terms are acceptable, Caesar. We shall return at noon.’

Antonius leaned close to Caesar again and another brief confab occurred, following which the general cleared his throat again. ‘Furthermore, my terms are to be applied to all tribes barring the Aedui and the Arverni, who will not supply further captives.’

Cavarinos and Fronto both looked across at the general with uncomprehending frowns and Caesar smiled.

‘The Aedui have been tricked into a betrayal that was not in their nature, and they shall not suffer as do the other tribes who willingly placed their trust in the rebel king. The Aedui were long friends of Rome and I hope they will be able to step into that role once more. And the Arverni, we feel, have been unjustly led into a rebellion that would have appalled previous generations, for a handful of years ago that tribe executed one of their own for attempting just such despotism. That they followed Vercingetorix to this war suggests to us that the rebel king and his druid accomplices were duplicitous and conniving and betrayed their own people far more than any such betrayal to us.’

Fronto stared. The Arverni? But they had been at the very heart of the rebellion from the beginning…

‘Go now, with my terms, and return at noon as I commanded if you find them acceptable, which I strongly recommend.’

Fronto was still boggling as Cavarinos nodded and turned with his companions, riding back towards the oppidum across the valley. As soon as they were out of missile range, the general and his officers departed from the wall, each heading to their own tasks, many following Caesar back to the command tent. Antonius slowed to fall in at the rear, producing his flask from his belt. With the frown still riveted to his face, Fronto dropped in beside him.

‘What was that with the Arverni?’

‘Hmm?’

Fronto glared. ‘Don’t be coy with me. That wasn’t Caesar. That was your doing. The Aedui I can understand, but the Arverni? And don’t feed me this rubbish about them being led against their will. I saw the fight in them yesterday. So why?’

Antonius gave him a sly, sidelong smile.

‘Politics, Fronto. You’re a soldier, not a politician.’

‘What?’

‘The Arverni were at the heart of the rebellion. The Aedui were the linch-pin that turned a rebel army into a national force.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And we do not, under any circumstances, want this to happen again.’

Fronto was starting to get annoyed. ‘So?’

‘So how readily do you think any tribe who has supplied us with slaves is going to follow one who didn’t — an official friend of Rome — into a second war against us.’

Fronto stared. ‘That’s twisted!’

‘That’s politics, Fronto. That’s why you’re a career soldier and you never climbed the cursus.’

Fronto stopped, watching Antonius disappear with the other officers, swigging wine as he went. Devious. Strange, complex, cunning and devious. Did Lucilia really think he could be anything more complex than a soldier? His gaze moved to the columns of smoke rising from the funeral pyres that covered the plains like a rash. Perhaps she was right. And as long as men like Antonius were drinking wine, importing the stuff from Campania might be a nice change from a thousand scattered bodies.

Lucilia. Suddenly he found he was more desperate to be home than he could ever remember being.

Fronto stood close to the gate. He was expected to be with the officers up in the praetorium, of course, but he simply did not have the patience, the heart or the stomach to watch what was about to happen: the subjugation and humiliation of a king. Being present at this great occasion and being seen to be so close to Caesar, supporting him, would be a career move that would confirm a few glittering futures today. Caesar would notice Fronto wasn’t there. He would be irritated by it, despite everything else happening.

But this morning, only an hour before this historic event, Fronto had visited the general and officially resigned his commission as legate of the Tenth legion. He had unknotted the red ribbon around his cuirass and handed it over. As of now, he was not an officer in Caesar’s army, and no man could order him to stand there and watch the end of Gaul, for that was exactly what was happening.

The musicians were blowing their instruments with glorious fanfares so long and so loud that he half expected a lung to pop out of the end of a cornu, and the whole thing was beginning to give him a headache. Caesar sat back up the hill on his campaign chair which had been draped with exotic animal pelts to look a little more throne-like. The officers were gathered around him, along with the eagles and standards of ten legions. The hillside was forested with captured Gallic standards as a monument to the rebels’ failure. And every officer of the legions, from tessarius, optio and centurion up to the tribunes, stood lining the Via Principalis from the north gate to the gathering at the headquarters, all in dress uniform, gleaming and proud to watch the humiliation of Vercingetorix.

Fronto watched the beaten tribesmen passing beneath the gate’s arch, their weapons discarded, their expressions disconsolate and lost. The foremost forty or so were supposedly the chieftains and leaders of the tribes, but Fronto had watched as they passed, and he was almost certain that they were nothing more than farmers and sailors bearing the torcs and arm-rings of their masters. Were the real leaders dead? Hiding and awaiting a chance to flee? He didn’t really care.

And then there he was.

Cavarinos walked past with the rest, wearing the arm-ring of his Arvernian heritage.

Fronto stepped out and addressed the centurion at the street’s edge.

‘I’ll take that one.’

The centurion — from the Thirteenth, apparently — gave Fronto a disparaging look. ‘Slaves will be assigned at a later date. Besides, he’s Arverni, so he’s immune.’

Fronto gave a low menacing growl as he watched Cavarinos moving away up the street.

‘I need to speak to that man, now get out of my way.’ Shoving the centurion aside, he grabbed Cavarinos’ arm, dragging him out of the parade of misery and into the shadows near the gate. The centurion opened his mouth to argue, even though the offender was wearing the tunic of an officer, but half a dozen singulares veterans suddenly closed up around the man protectively and, shrugging off the incident, the centurion turned back to the road.

A moment later, Vercingetorix went past, chin high and proud, unarmed and unarmoured, yet attired as a king. He was going to meet Caesar as a defeated equal and not a subjugated enemy.

Good luck with that.

‘I will be missed.’

‘No you won’t,’ Fronto muttered.

‘There is no need to save me, Fronto. Remember, the Arverni are not to be punished.’

The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss, and Fronto shook his head. ‘It is a sad day for your people.’

‘A glorious one for yours.’

‘Only a fool would think that.’

‘Then your main street is lined with fools.’

Fronto grunted. ‘What will you do?’

Cavarinos appeared to sag slightly. ‘I must find my brother’s body. Despite everything else that happened, I betrayed my family and I will have to live with that. I must begin to make amends.’

Fronto nodded his sombre understanding. ‘He shouldn’t be too hard to find. The bulk of the dead on both sides will be mass-cremated and buried, but anyone of nobility or rank will be laid out properly. Look for the Gallic nobility and check out the markers.’ He paused. ‘But not yet. Be subtle. The wounds of this battle will take a long time to heal. A soldier seeing a Gaul creeping about among the graves of nobles might not think too hard before he sticks a spear in you.’

Cavarinos nodded. ‘I can be subtle.’

‘Of that I have no doubt. What then?’

Cavarinos shrugged and paused as they listened to the announcements from away at the praetorium, where Caesar was narrowly avoiding gloating over his captive.

‘I will return to Arverni lands for a short while. There will be much to do, and I will have family matters to tie up.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Then? Then I will go.’

‘Where?’

‘I honestly have no idea. Somewhere away from this nightmare. Somewhere away from the Gods of our tribes, where druids have no sway.’

‘You could do worse than start again in the Republic?’ hazarded Fronto.

Cavarinos gave a humourless laugh. ‘I’m sure. But I doubt that will sit well with the shades that now fill my nights. No. Somewhere far away. Once I have things settled at Nemossos, at least. Perhaps you could try and make sure that your general tempers his men in the aftermath of this?’

‘I’ve never had that kind of influence with him,’ Fronto muttered, ‘Besides, I handed in my commission this morning. I am no longer a legate. No longer a soldier, in fact. This time next week I will be back in my villa above Massilia crooning to my boys and carving them shitty, badly-shapen toys. And importing wine,’ he added with a grin. ‘Importing wine is high on my list of things to do next.’

‘Then I wish you luck and, given what I know of you, I wish Massilia even more.’

Fronto laughed.

‘You might want this,’ Cavarinos murmured, reaching to remove the thong around his neck.

‘You keep it. I fear you will need it in the coming months. And I know a nice shop in Massilia where I can get a new one. I need a new Nemesis anyway, since I broke my last one.’ He grinned. ‘Look after yourself, Cavarinos of the Arverni.’

The nobleman held out a hand, which Fronto clasped.

‘And you, Fronto of Massilia, importer of wine.’

Fronto watched the former rebel commander slip back out into the street, where he moved up to join the rear of the parade of humiliation.

It truly was over. Tomorrow morning he would take Bucephalus and a pack mule and return to Massilia with his singulares as free men in his employ. Almost all his old comrades and friends in the legions had now passed to Elysium. The army was filled with hungry young politicians and humourless soldiers, and there was little to keep him in the bloody fields of Gaul any more. Besides, barring any mopping up, the war was effectively over and unless Caesar set his sights on new conquests, the legions may well be stood down by the senate the next year. But that was a worry for other men.

A new life beckoned with Gaul finally settled, and Fronto could hardly wait to see what it had to offer.

* * * * *

The ‘plain of mud and blood’. Summer 52BC.

Atenos reached down and shouted over to Brutus.

‘Here it is.’

The senior Roman officer hurried between the markers to where the Tenth’s primus pilus stood, looking down. Fronto’s sword, with its glittering orichalcum hilt filled with gods, hung from the corner of a marker which was also hung with a thick gold torc and a serpent arm-ring.

‘You deserve a medal for that, centurion. It could have taken months to find this.’

‘Someone’s been here before us, too, sir,’ Atenos noted, pointing down at the tracks in the dirt.

‘Burial details. They’re not fussy.’

‘This wasn’t a soldier, sir. Flat-soled boots. No nails.’

Brutus frowned and looked down at the grave. ‘Something else there too, stuck in the earth. Still, I’m not about to start messing with graves, and I strongly suggest you do the same. Just grab the sword and we’ll head back.’

Atenos nodded and collected the expensive gladius from the marker. ‘This is going to need a good polish and probably a new scabbard now after all that damp and muck.’

‘I daresay that can be done. Does Fronto really put much stock in this sword?’

Atenos threw him a strangely knowing smile. ‘The legate’s deluding himself, sir. He can no more live as a civilian than I can breathe water like a fish. We are what we are, and Fronto’s a soldier, sir. Might take him a year or two to realise it, but I’ve not seen the last of him. And I can guarantee you that even in the wine importing business, he’s going to need this.’

The centurion grinned as he hefted the glorious sword. Brutus gave him a smile in return.

‘Massilia can be a tricky place, so I hear.’

Epilogue

Fronto ran, the icy sweat pouring from his hairline and into his eyes, blinding him even further in this billowing charnel-stench of a thick mist. The gnarled yew trees that loomed through the fleecy blanket as he fled through white hell looked more and more like grasping, wizened, desiccated hands with each passing moment.

And that was what they were. He could see the fingers and the dirt-filled nails from their ascent to the surface of the turf, many fingers missing where the battlefield scavengers had sawed through muscle and bone to collect rings.

A forest of grasping dead hands — dark, grisly shapes in the mist.

Panic gripped him. Were these his own victims? All the fathers, brothers, sons — and, yes, even womenfolk — he had sent to the otherworld in seven years of butchering his way across Gaul? His feet suddenly ploughed into empty space, the ground falling away beneath him, unseen in the whiteness.

And he was plummeting, rolling and bouncing down a hill that was covered in jagged stones and roots. But they snapped with brittle noises as he tumbled over them, confirming that what appeared to be gnarled roots were protruding bones, the stones a shoulder, a pelvis, a skull.

Finally, the hill of dead things gave way to a carpet of damp turf, churned with muddy boot prints. The fog was now above him, like a white rug a foot or more over his head, roiling and blanking out the sky. But no longer hiding the bodies. The dead jutted like a petrified forest from the grass, mostly buried still to their hips, their hands raised to protect sightless dead faces from unseen blows. Arms stretched in supplication to gods that had abandoned them as the Roman war machine stole their futures.

Fronto felt fear like he’d never experienced. His bladder gave a little, providing the only warmth in this dead, desiccated white-grey world.

He tried not to look at the lifeless, destroyed faces of the hardened bodies as he passed them, aware that something was still chasing him. He’d not been able to see his pursuer beyond being a vague nebulous dark shape in the thick mist and yet, now that he was beneath that endless white blanket and would finally be able to get a good look at what hunted him, he still could not bring himself to turn and face it.

A body he passed was suddenly familiar, and his heart skipped a beat. Was that twisted wreck’s features really little Marcus? His son’s infant face smeared across the cracked skull of a dead Gaul. And Lucius? Was Lucius here too? A victim of his endless career of murder?

His foot caught something and he tumbled again, rolling across the cold, wet grass. When he finally stopped, shuddering, weak and terrified, his leg was submerged. He seemed to have rolled into the edge of a river or a pond. Panic-driven, he turned to rise.

And there was that raw, crimson face with the burning eyes, snarling as it bore down on him with a skinning knife.

Fronto woke with a lurch that almost stopped his heart. The sheets were wet through and freezing cold, rucked up from his night-time thrashing. His eyes failed to accept that the face had gone, echoing that image even superimposed over the dim, darkened wall of their bedroom. He was shaking uncontrollably as his ears finally returned to life.

‘Marcus?’ the voice was panicked. Insistent.

He turned and took long moments to recognise Lucilia, her face a mask of utter concern. Shivering, he shook his head at her with slight movement only and crawled from the edge of the bed, walking shakily across to the twin beds, with their high sides and voluminous covers, which rested by the wall.

Marcus and Lucius dozed happily, the latter turning with a contented murmur. They had changed so much since the last winter. They were babies no longer, but boys with the clear attributes of the Falerii. They were clearly his sons.

And they were alive. Happy. Healthy.

He shuddered again.

‘The same dream?’ Lucilia asked softly, approaching from behind and draping a fresh, warm blanket over his shoulders. Fronto nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

‘Tomorrow we are going to see the herbalists and the priests in town. Someone will know how to stop them. You can’t go on like this, Marcus.’

He nodded again. Still, his voice wouldn’t come. Every night now for weeks. Not more than a few hours’ sleep. It was affecting his waking world, too. Yesterday he’d been to fulfil an order of Formian for one of the city’s council, only to discover he’d ordered and loaded a Caecuban of a far more expensive vintage by mistake, which he’d then been obliged then to let go at the same low price.

The Greeks, even these displaced ones in Massilia, had always held the best reputation for medicine of both body and mind, and it was clearly time to seek help.

How did a man kill the ghosts of his past, though?

His eyes strayed from the sleeping forms of the twins and up to the wall at the far end of the room, where a glittering gladius with an orichalcum hilt hung, delivered against all expectations a month ago by the hand of a veteran centurion from the Tenth heading back to Rome for the winter.

He sighed and supressed another shudder.

How did one kill the dead?

Content

S. J. A. Turney
The Great Revolt

Prologue

PART ONE: OPENING MOVES

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

PART TWO: EXCHANGES AND GAMBITS Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

PART THREE: ENDGAME Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue