Sons of Taranis (58 page)

THE prisoner was roused from what might, after a year, have only generously been termed sleep, by a murmur of activity outside the gate. He turned to look at his fellow prisoners. Gattus had been broken for weeks now. He’d stopped talking a month ago and now just sat hugging his knees, rocking back and forth in complete silence. Almost a week had now passed since he had eaten anything and his body was on the brink of collapse, his rocking slowed to a jerky shudder. Ovidius was mad. Of course, he’d seemed mad when he was brought in almost a year ago. He’d actually torn the ear off a guard with his teeth as he was manhandled into the stockade. But he’d started… well there was no other way of saying it… eating himself. He’d taken bites out of his limbs and the damn Gauls, even if they had cared, had no brilliant Greek medics to deal with such things. Their healers were the druids, who seemed not to really care too much about the health of their Roman captives. Ovidius’ wounds were festering and while he seemed to be whole, if mad, he would not survive long with the rot set into his body. The only strong one remaining was Duorix, a Remi cavalryman who seemed to take every day with such a stoic calmness that it was only his example that had kept the prisoner going.

There had been more than thirty of them when they were first herded together. Now there were four. The prisoner had forgotten his name half a year ago – no one in here had known it anyway.

But the noise was interesting. There was a tone to it that the prisoner recognised from other fights. The sound of abject hopelessness – the sound of a loser. Somehow, given that they were his jailors he found that tone at once incongruous and utterly hilarious. He started to laugh.

Ovidius started to laugh with him, but that was hardly a surprise. Ovidius laughed at everything, even when he shat himself –
especially
when he shat himself. But Duorix seemed to have picked up on the same thing completely independently, and he was chuckling away to himself.

There was a groaning, scraping sound and the gate of the timber compound swung open. The prisoner tried to look through the mist of stink and the flies that had gathered around the rotted food – not everything they gave you was still fresh enough to eat, the human waste – no latrine or bucket, the latrine was the same place as the floor and the bed, and the bodies – the dead were only removed once a week or so, and there were still two festering legionaries in here.

The Gauls were shouting now. What were they saying? The prisoner had learned some of the Gallic language in his time here, though it had become rusty over time in seclusion and he had no idea what they said, but they sounded angry and desperate. One of them pointed at the survivors and made a walking gesture with two fingers, then pointed out of the gate.

Were they to be executed?

The tame Cadurci druid did that…

The prisoner had spoken to one or two of the less rabid druids belonging to the Aedui and the Remi years back and they had been clever, spiritual, well-spoken men. But when they considered you the enemy everything was different. They turned from erudite shepherds of the people into vengeful, irate maniacs with a thirst for torture. He could remember still when they had taken Manlius. The captives had been able to smell him cooking even as he still screamed. The prisoner shuddered.

But he moved on cue. Any progress, even to Elysium, was welcome now. For soon there would only be he and Duorix, and he knew damn well he would break first. Better to be dead than be found wanting in the last count. Ovidius tried to savage the Gauls as he passed them, but spear butts kept him painfully in place.

The four of them were urged out into the street and more care was seemingly being taken with their current movement than had been in their capture and imprisonment and the shifting from oppidum to oppidum in between.

Finally, one of them, who was clearly in charge, started shouting out orders to his men and the prisoner realised their tongue was coming back to him. He started to listen again. They were to line the prisoners up.

‘Gattus – legionary Roman,’ rasped one of them. Gattus, without a word and barely able to stand, shuffled forwards. ‘He might be dead before we reach the bottom,’ the Gaul said to his friend. Well, the prisoner could unpick perhaps every fourth word, but he could fill in the blank for the gist.

‘If he falls, you’ll have to carry him,’ the leader barked with no humour.

‘Ovidius – legionary Roman.’

‘That’s me. Marcus Ovidius, master on the field or in the sack. Or at least that’s what your whore of a mother told me!’ Ovidius exploded in laughter until
guard one
hit him in the stomach with a spear butt, folding him over.

‘Stop that,’ said his friend. ‘Don’t damage important commodities.’

‘Duorix – Remi traitor.’ Duorix barely acknowledged the man, chin up, head high as he fell into line.

The prisoner waited with bated breath.

‘Is this one alright?’ his jailor said. ‘He’s a funny colour.’

‘It’s permanent. He was like that when he was brought in.’

The first man shrugged,

‘Carbo – centurion Roman.’

Ah yes…
that
was his name.

* * * * *

‘I don’t know whether to salute you, support you or punch out your bloody teeth for leaving us all that time thinking you were dead,’ Atenos snorted as Carbo gulped down very watered wine as though it were the last flask in the world.

‘
You
spend a year with the Cadurci and let’s see how
you
feel, you big Gaulish ass.’

Atenos laughed out loud. ‘It’s my profound regret that Fronto is not here to see you. I’ll send him a message, even though I’m still waiting for a reply to my last. This will make his year. Mine too, ‘cause now I can get back to being an ordinary centurion. Primus Pilus is a pain in the arse. Too much writing and administration for my liking.’

‘Don’t get too ready to drop back down the ranks,’ Carbo coughed, and the effects kept him busy for some time. He was still idiotically weak. Eventually, when the fit subsided, he grinned. ‘I might be out of the business for a while. I might never be up to it again, in fact. A year of this ruins all your muscle tone. I might look at something cushy like camp prefect, or chief quartermaster if the general can be persuaded. You can keep your special tunic for now.’

A scream across the slope ripped through the still evening, and Carbo frowned. Ten heartbeats later there was another scream. Another. Another. When it had been going on long enough that Carbo had stopped counting, he gestured to Atenos. ‘What
is
that? Executions?’

‘That, sir, is the dulcet tone of Caesar’s leniency.’

‘What?’

‘Every scream is a Cadurci sword-hand being removed at the wrist.’

Carbo’s brow rose. ‘How many?’

‘All of them. Everyone who rose against us – every male of fighting age that was in Uxellodunon. They’re all to live, mind you. The louder shrieks you can hear aren’t the hands being removed. That’s the capsarii using burning pitch to cauterise the stumps. Caesar doesn’t want
any
of them to die. He wants them all to go home and spread the word, tell everyone what happens when you raise the standard of revolt.’

Carbo nodded slowly. ‘A grand show was ever Caesar’s way.’

Thudding footsteps stopped their conversation and both men turned to see Varus, the horse commander, jogging towards them.

‘It’s true,’ the man said with a grin. ‘I would not have believed it if I’d not seen it with my own eyes. You must have the constitution of Cerberus, man.’

Carbo gave a weak salute.

‘It is truly good to see you again, centurion. Good to see something pleasant come out of this evening.’ He winced at the sound of another dismemberment and turned to Atenos. ‘Caesar wants the Tenth’s First century to take control of a very special prisoner.’

Atenos frowned a question and the horse commander chuckled.

‘Our Arvernian friends have just ridden in with a rather disconsolate looking Lucterius strapped to a horse. Caesar probably has something special planned for this particular thorn in his side, but he doesn’t want the slippery little maggot to get away again. Your own century – the best of the veterans – are on that one man.’

The big Gallic centurion’s expression became serious. ‘He’ll not get past us. I heard that the couriers arrived this afternoon, sir. Anything from Fronto if I might ask?’

‘Nothing,’ muttered Varus, looking uncomfortable. He’d sent a messenger to Massilia some weeks back with the news of the campaign, and nothing had come back. ‘But other news has come in, and it’s good. Labienus has apparently utterly crushed the Treveri. According to the tribune who wrote the missive it sounds like a traditional Labienus victory. He took very few casualties, actually killed remarkably few of the enemy, yet still managed to douse their rebellious spirit totally. That man would make a good consul, though we’d miss him out here.’

‘Is that it, then?’ Carbo muttered. ‘Gaul is peaceful?’

‘It would seem so,’ Varus replied. ‘Caesar believes so anyway. There are no further sparks of rebellion we’re aware of and each region has a Roman presence. Caesar is talking about rewarding our Gallic allies, too, especially the Remi. Grants of citizenship have even been rumoured. Imagine the Remi as citizens of Rome. Anyway, the general’s already talking about winter quarters but, with it still only being late summer, he’s planning to take a small force down into Aquitania before the campaigning season ends. There might be no trouble down there, but he wants to be certain before he sends to the senate. Plus, it seems that when young Crassus was down there a few years back, he thought it might be a rich and abundant country, and it’s been poorly investigated thus far.’

Atenos sighed. ‘I hope the legions will still be needed next year. I’m not ready to run an inn at Agedincum or a farm near Bibracte yet. Still, when the time comes for Caesar to go back to Rome and take up his consulship, no one will be able to deny him now. He’s made a
province
. The lands of the tribes have somehow become Gaul, and Gaul has somehow become part of the republic. When he settles the veterans of twelve legions the place will be civilised at last, and with that kind of success under his belt Rome will fall all over him.’

‘Especially since he’ll have bought most of it,’ noted Varus with a sigh. ‘Rome is rapidly turning from an ideal into a commodity.’

* * * * *

Lucterius almost fell as he was pushed into the Roman stockade, though he kept his feet and held his head high. His legs were still stiff and ungainly from spending so long strapped across the back of a horse, as well as the residual bruising from the Arverni traitors’ cowardly attack at Nemossos. Behind him the gate slammed shut. Perhaps three dozen men were incarcerated here, presumably for being the more avidly anti-Roman, noble, and dangerous of Caesar’s captives. That might yet serve him well. He’d heard tales as he was manhandled through the camp – the proconsul had had the weapon hand struck from his entire army. Yet here there was no such dismemberment in evidence. Burning, hate-filled eyes turned to the new arrival. Here were warriors and nobles, still wearing their arm-rings, though disarmed and without their mail. And the fire in their eyes might be useful. He would still free himself, with the aid of these men. But first he had to get one difficult confrontation out of the way.

‘Where is Drapes,’ he demanded of the other prisoners.

Two or three hands pointed and Lucterius’ gaze followed the fingers to see a heap of ragged flesh and bone in the corner. The man was clearly dead, though Lucterius couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad one. ‘What happened?’

‘Starved himself,’ grunted one of the men.

Lucterius straightened. ‘Then he had less backbone than I thought. But we are different. We are Cadurci, and Arverni, and Carnutes and other great names. Men of tribes with a thousand year heritage of battle and honour. We will never bend our knees or our necks to Rome. Come, brothers, and we will plan our escape and to where we will run and regroup.’

He hadn’t expected a rousing cheer, but
something
positive would have been nice. Instead, he was greeted by a stony silence and glowering eyes.

‘Have heart, brothers,’ he cajoled. ‘Vercingetorix is being freed from the Roman prison as we speak, and this is far from over. I am Lucterius of the Cadurci, who led the…’

‘We know who you are,’ snarled one of the warriors.

‘Then we…’

‘You are the bastard who persuaded us that we could still win and then abandoned us to our fate. You are the bastard who led us to our defeat and death yet again. You are the man who has condemned the Cadurci to the fires of the underworld. This is all your doing, Lucterius. All your fault.’

Lucterius frowned as he recoiled at the words.

‘Now, listen…’

But the three dozen men were rising now, like the shambling dead from the graves of Alesia, fists balled and eyes afire. And they were closing on him.

‘Everything I have done, I did for the good of the people of all our tribes,’ he stuttered defensively.