Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (30 page)

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.’