Marius' Mules: Prelude to War (11 page)

‘We wait.’

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. Trust me and sit tight.’

Fabius shrugged and took a swig of the water again, passing the skin to Furius, who joined him.

‘Do you think the Aedui will support him?’

‘Who knows?’ Priscus muttered. ‘With him in the game, I’d say all wagers are off. I wouldn’t like to guess how long any tribe’s oath to Caesar will stand when they’re lined up along the edge of a precipice and their throats are being cut.’

They watched as Vercingetorix and his druid companion descended from the rampart again, disappearing from sight, and two warriors produced buckets of water to swill the blood from the wall top. A long silence fell as the oppidum wallowed sullenly in the grip of its prodigal son and crucial things happened somewhere within, out of their view. Priscus watched, that prickly feeling still jabbing at him, keeping him alert and expectant.

Fabius and Furius fell to intermittently watching the quiet, seething city and eyeing their commander anxiously. Both were twitching to return to their armour and horses, to where their companions waited along with the only method of fleeing this place at speed. Occasionally, the pair would share a look. Or at least three of their four eyes would, while Fabius’ other one kept a watch on the trees for rogue squirrels.

Furius was just taking a breath to urge for a move when Priscus hissed and gestured at the gate. The two tribunes followed his pointing finger and shrank back into the undergrowth as half a dozen figures emerged.

In front was Vercingetorix, every bit the tribal chieftain, glowing with power, great long sword in one hand and bloodied knife in the other. Behind him came another warrior, well armoured and well-decorated with silver and gold and bronze, marking him out as one of the leaders. Third came one of the druids - a big man, the size and shape of a wrestler, almost a match for the powerful rebel leader. Three men of importance and power. But it was the next three that had drawn the hiss from Priscus and which made the others shrink further from sight.

Two of Vercingetorix’s men emerged onto the grass, dragging a third figure between them and even from this distance, Priscus recognised the form of Pixtilos the merchant, his distinct green tunic and grey trousers stained with dark patches, his limbs limp and head hanging forward.

‘Oh shit.’

Vercingetorix began to speak, not loud enough for the three to hear, even if they could have understood the words. Whether Pixtilos answered him or not, they could not tell, but the druid shuffled close and spoke to the prisoner. The senior warrior then stepped forward and cuffed the merchant across the cheek, hard enough to dislocate or break bone, and was admonished by the druid, presumably for his roughness. Priscus nodded his understanding. No matter what the circumstances you never hit a prisoner hard enough to break his jaw when you wanted him to talk to you.

While the three men held their breath, they watched with dismay as the merchant slowly raised his head, his face bloody and misshapen, and pointed directly at the farm.

‘We have to warn them,’ Fabius whispered, Furius nodding his agreement.

Priscus stood still as a statue, his eyes locked on the six men. Yes, the men did deserve the warning - though Cenialis hoeing the garden should spot approaching men in good time - but he couldn’t help but notice how Pixtilos, now that his interrogation was temporarily done with, glanced up in their direction and appeared to be looking at them. The merchant had known about their hiding place, of course, had been instrumental in their finding it in the first place. He hadn’t given them up yet, but then he couldn’t know they were there right now, could he?

Priscus couldn’t help feeling the silent plea in that look. Vercingetorix had cut the throats of his own family for denying him the power he probably saw as his right. What would he be prepared to do to one of his people he saw as a traitor in bed with Rome?

Turning his thoughts with some difficulty from the dreadful fate that might await the man who had helped them so often and so much, Priscus gestured back towards the stream with his thumb.

The three men backed away from the edge of the coppice, moving slowly and carefully at first, so as not to show up as sudden movement and so as not to spook the wildlife and send birds up into the canopy. They could not afford to attract attention right now.

As soon as they were away and in the heart of the copse, though, they scrambled down through the wet ground towards the stream and began to run.

The ground was soft from the wet winter atmosphere and the mud and straggly turf by the stream squelched and shifted dangerously under the three men’s feet as they ran, threatening to upend them more than once, and it was more by luck and momentum than by balance that the officers reached the lower stretch near the farm without having fallen painfully into the narrow, cold flow.

At the lowest point, where the stream turned away and disappeared down the valley to join the Elaver river rushing north, Priscus grasped the projecting root of a long-dead tree to haul himself up to the level of the hedgerow that ran up to the farm buildings. Pulling himself up from the sucking earth of the stream bank, the prefect gave a sharp squawk of surprise as he found himself jerked back down, his hands scraping painfully off the root.

Shaken, as he stumbled and tried not to fall, he turned an angry glare on Furius, who was still gripping him tight, but the tribune merely shook his head and held up a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. Following his companion’s lead, Priscus steadied himself, breathing quietly and with deliberate slowness, and rose once more to look over the edge of the stream gulley, a tribune on each side.

A party of Gauls were reining in their mounts in the courtyard in front of the farm buildings. Priscus cursed inwardly. They had returned as fast as they could by the slightly circuitous route, but they’d been on troublesome ground and on foot. The Arverni had ridden horses steadily across the flat, strong terrain between and had easily reached the buildings first.

Crouched, only their eyes and the top of their heads visible over the ridge, and those partially obscured by flora and root systems, the three officers watched with a sense of dread as a score of warriors arrived. Vercingetorix was there, along with the druid from the city’s gate and the decorated warrior who had been with him. The rest all had the look of hardened fighters and were clearly the men who had been travelling the countryside with their leader. One of them had Pixtilos the merchant over the saddle of a spare horse, tied by wrists and ankles with a rope that ran beneath the beast’s girth.

Half a dozen of them remained in the saddle, along with the prisoner, while the others straightened on foot, rubbing their hands and stretching their muscles.

Vercingetorix turned his sword over and over slowly in his grasp before looking up at the front of the farmhouse, out of sight of the three watchers, and opening his mouth, clearing his throat.

‘Show yourself, Romans!’

Priscus was surprised at the clarity of the man’s Latin, spoken with an accent reminiscent of a citizen of Narbo and without the hint of Gallic distain that so often carried through when natives spoke to their occupiers.

There was a long pause. From their angle of view by the stream, the three watchers could not see the front of the farm house, but at an angle, they
could
see those standing outside. What was happening in the building? After a tense few heartbeats, a figure stepped out. They couldn’t quite see him, and couldn’t immediately identify the new arrival, but his footsteps bore the familiar crunch of nailed boots on compacted earth and grit ground, and briefly they caught a glimpse of glinting metal around the building’s corner as the man moved.

He’d armoured himself, then; as, hopefully, had everyone else. Resistance, of course, smacked of futility, if the Arvernian rebel decided that the Romans would die, which seemed the inevitable conclusion. After all, there were only six men in the farm, and only three of them heavily armoured legionaries, while the warriors at their door alone numbered twenty. And, of course, they were surrounded by Arverni settlements and, after what had just happened in Gergovia it was hard to imagine any of the tribe holding to their Roman oaths.

But it was not in the nature of the Roman soldier to submit when a weapon was to hand, and Priscus would have been shocked if what he heard next had been anything different.

‘Begone,’ came the voice of Cenialis, accompanied by the familiar sound of a blade drawn from a wood and leather sheath and catching slightly on the bronze fittings at the end.

Clearly the legionary had seen events unfolding at a distance and had had the foresight to enter the building, warn his companions and begin kitting up. Only his quick decision could have resulted in his being so prepared so quickly. There had been no point in dissembling. If the war-band made for the farm, subterfuge was pointless and it would be better to be armed, and if they went about their business without any attention to the farm, the legionaries would simply return to their disguises.

No point
now
, in denying their Roman status.

Priscus could see Vercingetorix facing the building, the long Celtic blade in his hand. The Arverni rebel smiled then, and in that moment Priscus knew that every occupant of the farm was dead – not that he’d had much doubt about that anyway.

‘You have an officer of Caesar’s army among you. A prefect of high standing, I believe.’

Priscus felt his heart sink. Pixtilos had told them more than he thought. ‘Til this moment there had been the possibility that the three men hiding in the ditch might be able to escape this place unnoticed. It was not a matter of fear or self-preservation, of course. Priscus would rather stand by his men and die honourably than run from a fight and leave them to face the enemy alone. But someone had to get word of these events to the army and its leaders, and the three officers in the gulley were now that someone. There was no one else. But if Vercingetorix knew of the prefect’s presence, then their chances had just plummeted.

‘We have to get word out,’ Priscus hissed to his companions.

Fabius and Furius both nodded their agreement, but their faces were troubled. ‘How, though?’ asked Fabius, one of his eyes turning to Priscus. ‘We’re deep in Arverni territory, and the army are on the other side of at least three tribes, including the Senones, the Carnutes and the Aedui. To reach the main force is near two hundred miles, all through probably hostile lands, and we don’t speak a word of their tongue!’

Priscus nodded disconsolately. There was at best a slim chance of success there. ‘It’s only about a hundred miles east to the Rhodanus. There’s allied depots all along that river.’

‘A hundred miles of mostly mountains,’ reminded Furius.

‘You need to go, anyway,’ Priscus grunted. ‘Do your best and stick to the wilds as much as you can. Avoid all built-up areas.’

‘Suicide,’ replied Furius quietly.

‘You have to go. Word has to get out, and I will have to…’

He fell silent and shrank down towards the turf as three of the warriors came around the corner of the farmhouse, poking into the huts and hutches.

‘We are officers of Rome,’ came another voice from the front of the house. ‘We are allies of the Arverni tribe and citizens of the republic, and if you wish your tribe to keep the advantages Rome graciously allows them, you will leave this farm and remove your threatening presence.’

Priscus frowned. That sounded like Flaccus. He was doing a passable imitation of a commanding tone, given that the man had about as much class as a latrine cleaner and roughly as much command experience. He was with them because he was a low, sneaky, oft-arrested thief and capable of thinking on his feet. It was exceptionally odd listening to him taking such a noble stance.

The speaker stepped partially into sight and Priscus’ eyes widened. The sneaky little shit had strapped on Priscus’ harness of medals, jammed his embossed helm on that unruly mop of red hair, and pinned the luxuriant senior officer’s cloak about his shoulders. If you didn’t know he was a man who’d spent more time in the stockade than in armour, he could almost pass for an officer.

‘Prefect Priscus? Of Caesar’s staff?’ the Arverni chieftain said, his eyebrows tilting in suspicion.

‘Soon to be Prefect Priscus, arse-kicker of Gauls if you do not step back and sheathe that blade!’ snapped Flaccus.

Priscus shook his head in wonder and, despite their predicament, Furius grinned. ‘Gods alive, he does actually sound like you!’ he whispered.

‘You would do well to keep your silence and issue fewer threats, Prefect,’ the Arverni noble barked, taking an angry step forward. ‘Your time here is at an end. The Carnutes have struck the first blow, massacring the Roman depot at Cenabum, and your army’s supply lines are now severed. Your legions in the north are settled into their winter quarters, unaware of the storm building around them, and will not move from their camps without their general’s authorisation.’

‘Or so you believe,’ Flaccus sneered convincingly.

‘They will not,’ Vercingetorix replied with confidence. ‘And your general is mired in the politics and troubles of Rome, unable to leave his palace. I offer you a choice, Prefect…’

‘My arse!’

Again, anger flared in the rebel’s eyes.

‘I offer you
this
choice: submit yourself to interrogation and I will give you my word that your companions will be despatched swiftly and mercifully, to a man.’

‘Fuck off!’ snapped Flaccus through the ill-fitting prefect’s helmet

‘He really does sound like you,’ hissed Fabius.

‘Fuck off,’ Priscus replied quietly, in the face of Fabius’ grin.

Again the flare of anger from the Arverni rebel.

‘Resist me and each of you will suffer such that you will beg a thousand times for death before revered Sucullus enfolds you in his grey cloak. Some will burn. Some will learn the agonies of the stake. Some will be left peeled and raw for the scavengers. Your submission for your companions’ merciful deaths. It is the only offer I will make.’