Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (51 page)

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.’