Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (17 page)

‘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.