Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (65 page)

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.’