Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (2 page)

Vercingetorix

Chieftain of the Arverni tribe, former allies of Rome who occupy the land in the south of Gaul, close to the border with Narbonensis. Vercingetorix is the son of a man who attempted to become overlord of all the Gallic tribes and over the past two years, with the support of the druids, has been building an army and numerous alliances in a bid to break Gaul free of Roman control.

Vergasillaunus

The cousin of Vercingetorix, Vergasillaunus is also a higher noble of the Arverni. He is known as a thoughtful man and a great general. He has been at his cousin's side since the beginning and is the most trusted of his men and second in command of the rebellion against Rome.

Cavarinos

An Arvernian nobleman from the oppidum of Nemossos. Along with his brother, Critognatos, he is one of Vercingetorix's most trusted men. An intellectual and deep man who does not trust the druids or their gods, Cavarinos' belief is in the strength of flesh and of will. At the opening of our tale, he commands a contingent in Vercingetorix's force.

Critognatos

The brother of Cavarinos, Critognatos is a more forthright and less thoughtful man than his brother - a powerful warrior and renowned leader whose sights are set on the goal of a free Gau,l and who will not allow anything to divert him from that goal. Critognatos is also a commander of a contingent.

Teutomarus

The elderly king of the Nitiobriges tribe from Aquitania, Teutomarus is one of the more senior and respected leaders of the Gallic rebellion.

Lucterius

A chieftain of the Cadurci tribe from the border region with Rome, Lucterius has long been an ally and supporter of Vercingetorix. His tribe are fiercely loyal to him, and he to his leader. Lucterius has a reputation as a more than able military leader, his cavalry being famous throughout the land.

‘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.