Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (8 page)

The Arverni noble kicked his horse on with the rest of the Aedui horsemen, allowing himself to drop towards the rear of the force. He would have to wait until dark to slip away from the retreating Aedui and return to the army of his kin. He would not have a chance to speak to Litavicus, but the young warrior had played his part and played it well, and Cavarinos had no doubt that they would meet again soon enough.

* * * * *

Cavarinos slung his heavy saddle bag to the damp turf outside Vercingetorix’ tent, a proud leather edifice bearing the name of some important Roman, which had been confiscated along with most of the interior furnishings from a cart in a Roman convoy near Vesontio early in the year. He knew his brother hated the thing, but the Romans made practical, durable kit, whatever else you thought of them, and the king of the Arverni couldn’t have hoped for a better campaigning tent.

The two men standing nearby had merely nodded to him as he arrived and he pushed his way inside without challenge. Vercingetorix sat on a plump, dark red cushion that was made from some smooth material Cavarinos had heard came all the way from the lands of the Seres, far over the mountains to the east of Greece. Nearby, Critognatos sat on a smooth log, showing disdain for such Roman luxuries. Vergasillaunus lounged in a wooden chair. None of the others were present, which was a great relief to Cavarinos, given the aches in his bones and the weary fug in his head following a ride at breakneck pace from the fleeing Aeduan force a few hours earlier. His horse would take a while to recover, and Cavarinos could do with a day or two’s sleep himself.

‘The hero returns,’ grinned Vergasillaunus. ‘How did you like our surprise?’

Cavarinos laughed a tired laugh and with a respectful nod at the king, sunk into the comfiest chair he could see, a Roman one lined with thin velvet cushions.

‘It surprised
me
, but you should have seen the look on the rest of the faces.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘I have to say that I was half-convinced that Litavicus was playing us false until the last moment. But he held it together well. The Aedui will be convinced that their allies have deserted them and come over to us.’

‘Which,’ Vergasillaunus grinned, ‘is precisely what will now happen, of course.’

‘Neatly done. And, of course, the Aedui will begin to think on the value of their oath to Rome in the knowledge that Caesar and his army are separated and their supply and communication lines ruined, while our army grows ever stronger. They might not be ready to commit yet, mind, even with traitors working for us from within.’

Vergasillaunus nodded. ‘But we must have them. When we have the Aedui, a dozen other wavering tribes will throw in their lot with us.’

The Arverni king cracked his knuckles, drawing silence from the tent. ‘We will stay here at Avaricon until all is settled to our satisfaction. The survivors of your little foray made their way back into the oppidum an hour or two before you returned and this night the whole tribe will panic, debate, argue and hide their valuables. Then, in the morning, I expect to see their deputation come forth with the desire to join us. I anticipate a week or more, though, before we can be certain that things are correct here, and in that time I will draw a sizeable force from them to bolster our army. Then, in due course, we will move on west, against the Boii oppidum of Gorgobina. The Boii also live within Aedui protection and their fall to us will help weaken the Aedui’s resolve. I see this as the last series of moves before we are ready to face the legions. Gorgobina will be flattened and the Boii annihilated. The Aedui will realise they are alone. They will send to the Romans for aid, but their commander in the field is careful and prudent. He will not commit to them without his general’s consent, for he will fear another winter that sees the loss of entire legions. The Aedui will be truly isolated, and our traitors will turn them to us. Then, with the aid of the reticent tribes of the northwest, we will become a vast horde, easily capable of swatting the ten legions in the north. All is proceeding as expected, my friends. But we must be cunning and political and not deviate from the plan.’

Cavarinos nodded his understanding, though there was an unhappy rumble from his brother. Critognatos stirred and ran his fingers through his beard, ripping out the tangles in the matted hair. ‘So you trick our neighbours into distrusting one another, and now you will destroy a small tribe just to shake the resolve of a larger one. Why bother fighting the Romans at all, when we can be
just like them
?’

He spat on the floor, and Cavarinos noted the slight narrowing of their king’s eyes at such behaviour in his tent.

‘I do not expect
you
to make war on other tribes, Critognatos,’ the king said in icy tones. ‘You have made your opinions abundantly clear. I have another task for you. The Carnutes have sent a reasonable force south to join us - enough to fool and worry the Aedui, but not half as many as I was expecting. And the Senones as yet send no one, despite their promises. You are concerned that we risk our forces when we should be increasing them? Then I task you with riding north alongside a few good men to visit the tribes and remind them of their loyalties. Draw from them more promises of warriors and make sure those promises are held to and that the reinforcements are sent to join us here.’

Critognatos’ face showed a modicum of disappointment that he was still not being sent to kill Romans, but the knowledge that he would not now be required to fight other tribes, and the faint tang of pride in the importance of the task assigned to him got the better of him, and he nodded with a rare smile. ‘To the Carnutes and the Senones to begin with, then?’

‘And then the Cenomani, the Meldi and the Parisi. And follow up on anything you might come across on other local tribes on your journey. Do not get too close to the Roman forces up there, though. Caesar’s pet war-dog Labienus is in that region, and he is a dangerous man. He would not leap to the aid of the Aedui, but he will not countenance rebels stirring up the local tribes. Use your initiative.’

Cavarinos fought the urge to roll his eyes at the tying of the word ‘initiative’ with his brother, but as Critognatos nodded he saw a look pass between the commanding cousins. Just for a moment he wondered whether the pair might even have considered this duty in the north solely to rid themselves of the difficult chieftain for a time.

‘And you, Cavarinos,’ Vergasillaunus said, still with that twinkling smile.

‘Me?’

‘I am afraid,’ Vercingetorix sighed, ‘you will have little time to rest. Take tonight to recover from your time among the Aedui, for tomorrow you ride north with your brother.’

A cold stone of disappointment settled in Cavarinos’ stomach. ‘But…’

‘No.’ Vercingetorix’s face took on the look that Cavarinos knew brooked no argument, so he fell silent. ‘I have another task for you,’ the king continued. ‘A young
uidluias
seer with a great reputation for lore and for the
sight
joined us along with the Carnutes. She tells me that the ongoing depredations of the Romans has awoken the ire of the great god Ogmios and that the
lord of words and corpses
has bent his strength and will to a new curse with them in mind.’

Cavarinos had to fight once more to hold in his contempt.
Ogmios
, the Lord of Words. Unlike the common curse tablets, etched by the desperate in the hope of Divine interference and cast into holy springs,
his
curse tablets came written by the god’s hand, straight from the sky, it was said, and only during the worst storms, amid the crash of thunder and the flare of lightning. They were rarer than a bird flying backwards. Kings and chieftains had fought wars over the ownership of one of the insipid artefacts. Priceless, they were. And as far as Cavarinos was concerned, prime superstitious bullshit.

‘You would send me to the shepherds of the ways to collect a curse? It is wasted effort. Send me instead to procure weapons, horses and men, for it is they who will help us beat Rome. Not the trickery and tomfoolery of druids.’

Vercingetorix’s face still held that fixed expression, defying him to push his luck. But Cavarinos’ opinion of druids and curses and such drivel was well-known among his peers. That the king would even consider sending him bowing and scraping to the druids was little short of an insult.

‘I
detest
their kind and their attempts to control all the tribes and chieftains of the land. And they know it, too. There is every chance that they will refuse me upon sight. Send
me
to rouse the tribes and send
Critognatos
to fawn to the shepherds. He believes in them.’

Vercingetorix had the grace to look faintly apologetic. ‘In truth, my friend, I know all these things, and it was in neither my mind nor my heart to send you.’

‘Then why order it?’

‘Because the uidluias who told me of the curse also told me that only you can find it and wield it. Curious, the ways of gods, are they not?’

Cavarinos opened his mouth to argue, but instead looked at the three faces arrayed before him. Neither of the leaders would ever
submit
to the power of the druids, but both still respected their power and held them in esteem. And as for Critognatos: well, Cavarinos would find no help there. The uidluias had spoken the will of gods, and her voice carried a thousand times the weight of his to their ears. Argument was futile. He sighed. ‘Where do I start?’

‘The greatest nemeton and gathering of the shepherds is in Carnute lands, and there Ogmios is strong. That would seem the place to begin.’

* * * * *

‘We should have come through the mountains,’ grunted the heavy-set Cadurci warrior with the grisly necklace. Lucterius, his chief and superior in every manner barring foulness of appearance, shook his head, glancing distastefully at the necklace, formed of four dozen Roman teeth, each one selected and removed while its owner was still conscious, and threaded onto the cord with a hole drilled through the enamel. It might be common practice for the warriors to gather gruesome mementos, even down to the preserved Roman heads that he knew his cousin kept in his house, but the clatter and rattle of these particular souvenirs always set Lucterius’ own teeth on edge.

‘The mountains are all-but impassable at this time of year, and you know that. There is every chance we would have to dig our way through snow as deep as two men. This route was longer, but trust me, it was still quicker.’

The initial force of two thousand Cadurci warriors, augmented by men drawn from the Petrocorii, the Nitiobroges and the Volcae, now numbered in excess of six thousand, and that number would rise by at least another two thousand by nightfall, as the Ruteni had pledged horsemen, warriors and many of their infamous and deadly archers to the cause.

Lucterius looked along the narrow grassy valley ahead, which angled to the southeast and would deliver them into the lands of Roman Narbonensis in a matter of days. Above them, along the hillsides, thick, tangled forests kept their advance secret from potential onlookers, and the scouts ahead had as yet found no sign of Roman outposts.

The army had taken a circuitous route, curving out towards Aquitania and the western ocean before arcing back east and south, making the most of the gorges, narrow defiles and oft-unknown forest paths of the region. There was no chance, of course, that the Roman province knew they were coming, but Lucterius was nothing if not careful, and their route had taken them by secretive ways such that they would appear on the edge of Roman territory unnoticed and unexpected.

And without having to dig their way through a snowy pass…

He smiled to himself at what he imagined at the end of their journey: the freeing of the people. Narbonensis would fall, ripped from the Romans’ grasp and released from their endless taxes and uniformity and laws. And they would once again become a free land of Volcae, Tectosages, Arecomici and all the other tribes who had languished under Roman rule for so long. For it was no good Vercingetorix and his far-seeing Arverni raising all the tribes to fight back the Romans without freeing their captive brothers in the south after a century of domination.

He glanced back to see his force pouring through the valley behind him, skirting the low mound of some Ruteni town or other, where the men cheered this show of strength in the face of Roman rule, and the women leaned over the walls and, despite the bone-freezing chill, bared their breasts at the passing warriors, who laughed and called back in delight.

He could only imagine the different scene if they had come the direct route across the mountain passes. Instead of the inviting pink breasts of the local women, his men would be digging a path through packed snow and spending half the time burying their own dead and snapping off hardened blue-black toes.

No. He had suggested this route to Vercingetorix, and the Arverni king had been wholeheartedly in agreement. In less than a week they would be in Narbonensis and bringing fear, fire and the sword to all who held to Roman rule.

His own tribe were not so far north of here, to the south of the Arverni, and it had been Lucterius who had given the king the initial estimates of the garrison and approximations of the general strength of Narbonensis. But recent conversations with the few Volcae who still lived outside the borders of the republic and with the free Ruteni had supported his estimates.

The standing garrison of Narbo would number no more than a thousand. There were other Roman units scattered about the province, particularly to the west, furthest from Rome, but between them all not more than a thousand. That meant a rough figure of two thousand in the whole province. A
quarter
of the number that Lucterius brought south. And they were not battle-hardened veteran legionaries like Caesar’s troops, but slovenly, fat and untried garrison troops who had faced no threat in living memory.

Moreover, there was almost no chance of the entire force being brought together with less than a week’s notice, scattered as they were across the breadth of the province. And there was no more threat from the Roman forces down in the Iberian lands than there was from those in Caesar’s province on the far side of the Alpes.