Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (43 page)

‘But that love-struck young lady warned us in advance,’ Fronto grinned nastily. ‘When the silly old fart opened the door he found not Caesar, but a contubernium of veteran legionaries, all rather incensed and on extra pay for their time.’

As Antonius chuckled, Caesar smiled. ‘I think he rather regretted setting the trap as he watched the thugs beaten senseless, waiting for my men to turn to him.’

Fronto laughed aloud. ‘Not as much as he regretted the fact that, while all that was happening, you and his strumpet of a wife were going at it again in his own bedroom.’

Caesar gave him a hard look as the officers around him made straining noises, trying not to burst out laughing. ‘
Anyway
,’ the general replied loudly, ‘the point was that he had expected us to come in the front, but I used that expectation to distract him while I affected entry elsewhere.’

‘You’re suggesting something similar here?’ Antonius frowned as Fronto chortled in the background.

‘I am. Let me run my idea past you all. I think you’ll like it.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he rode across the hillside of the more southerly peak, which was dotted with scattered trees and yet nude in comparison with its northern companion, Vercingetorix and Vergasillaunus at his side and Lucterius and Sedullos close behind. Two of the Lemovices who had been left on watch atop the southern hill was waving over at them and pointing down the slope. The commanders of the rebel army trotted over to the scout and reined in, trying not to look east, where the early morning sun hovered just above the horizon with blinding golden light.

‘No need to ask what he saw,’ murmured Vergasillaunus as the five nobles peered down at the activity below. A train of supply carts was moving west along the valley floor from the Roman position, skirting the lowest reaches of this very hill. Roman regular cavalry moved among and around it in sizeable units, and Caesar’s allied Gallic cavalry were also in evidence, ranging across the lower slopes protectively.

‘What are they doing?’ Lucterius snorted.

‘They are transferring a sizeable part of their camp, building a new one,’ Vergasillaunus replied. ‘Perhaps they mean to seal off that northern approach after all. See how there are engineers among them. They have those strange stick things Roman engineers carry.’

‘Groma,’ Cavarinos noted.

‘Whatever they’re called, if those men have them, they’re engineers. Baggage, engineers and cavalry. They’re heading to a spot for a new camp.’

‘If they meant to seal off the northern approach they would have gone straight there, not skirted the whole place in a circuit. No, these men are heading to the western end, beyond the hills. What could they hope to achieve to the
west
?’

Vercingetorix took a deep breath. ‘They are not heading west. They are just moving into position. See also the gleam of steel down there?’ The king pointed at the lower slope, toward the Roman lines. As the others followed his gesture, they spotted the legion through the trees and scrubland, moving into position at the foot of the slope.

‘They hope to distract us with the carts to the west, while their supposedly-hidden legion assails the hill and takes our position. They can then hold it while those engineers come up with the carts and fortify, all with cavalry support. They are moving to take the hill, and they are attempting to be cunning about it, distracting us from their real target. But their legion is not as well hidden as they think.’ He glanced across at Cavarinos. ‘Well, this hill will not fall as easily as the white rocks.’

The Arverni king turned to the men of his personal entourage who had followed on and now waited behind at a respectable distance. ‘No signals or calls. Just have the word sent out. Bring every man we can spare across to the western hills. They will not take this position.’

* * * * *

‘A few horsemen at the crest,’ Brutus muttered. ‘Have to be nobles. The rebel king, you think?’

Aristius pursed his lips. ‘I don’t really know these Gauls yet, but it seems likely. Do you think he’s seen us?’ He glanced around at the glinting forms of the newly-assigned Fifth legion moving through the trees. What an order they’d been given: move as noisily as you can, but try to make it look like you’re sneaking!

How the hell were they supposed to do that?

As they’d moved through the woods, the clank and shush of mail and other kit vying with the call of the multitudinous larks in a dawn chorus of war, Aristius had not known whether to tell his men to quieten down or to move louder.

Still, they seemed to have done the job, if they’d drawn the attention of the leaders. Moreover, as he watched he saw one of the high, distant figures gesture out to the west, to where part of the camp’s supply train had been sent out as a distraction, the mule-handlers and teamsters kitted out in military gear and resembling cavalry to the untrained eye. The activity had to be causing the Gauls concern.

Above, the riders started to wave to someone unseen, and then turned and left the edge of the slope.

‘They’ve definitely seen us,’ Brutus smiled. ‘Job complete. Have the Fifth draw up and wait in formation in the woodland. Let’s keep their focus on us.’

* * * * *

Fronto stood between his fellow legates, feeling older than usual, given the company, despite his current level of vigour and the warm weather giving him relief from knee trouble. Seven years ago, he had come to Gaul in the company of his future father-in-law, and Balbus had been the old man of the army. Strange that these days
he
had become the elderly officer, Sextius to his left and Fabius to the right both more than ten years his junior.

The three legates straightened as Caesar and Antonius stepped out of the tent at the centre of the
white rocks
camp. Things had been crowded here last night with the arrival under the cover of darkness of the Thirteenth, and despite what was about to happen, every man was looking forward to moving out of their sweaty, tight, cramped quarters.

‘My scouts tell me that the Gauls have been flooding across to the twin hills for the past half an hour, gentlemen. It appears that they have fallen for our ruse. Brutus and Aristius have their attention riveted on the Fifth. Now is our time to ravage their camp. Are the men supplied?’

The three legates nodded. Every century had been given a dozen pitch-soaked torches and a slow-burning horseshoe fungus, barring three cohorts of the Thirteenth, who were to remain behind and guard the camp.

‘Remember that this is a raid, not an assault. Their camp is seriously undermanned now and with surprise we can deal the enemy a dreadful blow, but we are not attempting to take and secure that camp. Lying just below the oppidum’s walls, we cannot hold the camp and to do so would lead to disaster. We storm to stone wall….’

Fabius coughed, surprise overriding his good sense and leading him to interrupt the general.

‘
We
, sir?’

‘Yes. We. I shall be accompanying the raid, among the ranks of the Tenth.’

‘Is that wise, general?’

Caesar gave his legate a hard look. ‘Fabius, I am no stranger to battle. But this should not be a hard fight anyway. This is a swift raid only. I wish to have a closer look at the enemy positions and their defences, and this will give me the perfect chance for that.’ He paused and rubbed his chin. ‘As I was saying, we storm the stone wall and, as soon as we are in their camp, I want every remaining occupant killed. We do not have the time or resources for prisoners. Kill anyone you find. Take anything that stands out as valuable, useful, or informative, and then burn the rest. Every tent. Every cart. Every crate or sack. I want that camp a mile-long field of ash when we leave. The Aedui riders will be coming up the slope from the main camp to our right. They will hold back and not engage, but are there to provide support should it be needed.’

The general rubbed his hands together in a business-like fashion. ‘Are we all clear?’

‘Yes, general.’

* * * * *

Teutomarus, king of the Nitiobriges, was not a young man. Indeed, his sons had urged him time and again not to lead their tribe’s contingent in the war against Rome. But he had refused. It was his duty and right as king, and when they destroyed Caesar and his legions and pushed Rome back to its home peninsula, it would be his name that was sung in the halls of the mighty alongside Vercingetorix and his generals, and not that of a son or nephew whose only real concern for him was not for his health, but that he not hog all the glory.

He stretched out languidly. His joints had stopped aching with the change in the weather, at least, but the weariness refused to leave, and the protracted periods in the saddle were playing havoc with his back, which had plagued him since a hunting accident over a decade ago.

His bed was comfortable, transported for him by cart and stuffed with the finest down to soothe his ageing bones. And his tent was larger than the rest of the Nitiobrige nobles’, well-appointed with Gallic and stolen Roman goods. Outside, he could hear his horse whickering, but all else was the sound of nature at work. Comforting.

The bulk of the tribes had rushed across to the twin hills at the Arverni king’s call to hold the heights against a legion or two that were said to be moving on them. Teutomarus had been perfectly willing to take part, but when Vercingetorix had asked that the Nitiobriges remain at the oppidum to continue the fortifications, he had been secretly grateful. The men of his tribe toiled up at the oppidum’s west gate and inside, strengthening the walls and digging ditches as best they could until they hit white rock. But their king, who would hardly be expected to endure such manual labour, had taken the well-deserved and much-needed opportunity for forty winks.

He rolled onto his side, but that brought back the dull ache in his lower spine so, with a groan, he settled onto his back again. It was too warm, even this early in the day, to be covered up, and he lay there bare-chested and bare-footed, his tunic, cloak and boots, as well as his gold and bronzeware, lying on a purloined Roman chest nearby. With a sigh of pleasure, he folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes again, enjoying the tent’s dim interior, which kept the worst of the heat at bay.

And then, as he lay relaxing, his ears picked something out of the symphony of nature’s activity. It took his tranquil mind precious moments to discern the sound of an urgent voice among the strains of animal and bird life and the daily routine noises of the oppidum above.

For a moment, he didn’t believe what he was hearing, but there it was again: a shrill, desperate call. His ears focused on the call, blocking out all the other sounds as best he could.

Romans
?

Scratching his head, he sat up - slowly, to save further back trouble - and blinked away the fuzziness of his rest. There were half a dozen shouts now, and close. Frowning, not quite sure what was going on, Teutomarus hauled himself to his feet with a long groan, whitening fingertips gripping a high cupboard to help him rise. He stood, stooped by his sore back, and slowly, carefully, straightened.

He tried to roll his shoulders to loosen up a little, but the movement hurt too much and he settled for at least standing straight. Were the voices shouting louder, or were they closer? Both?

Rubbing his chin and moustaches, he stepped gingerly to the door of his tent, his feet feeling every nuance of the soft grass beneath him. Still somewhat bleary, he threw back one flap of his tent door. His quarters were almost perfectly central in the long camp, half a mile along, and halfway between the stone wall and the oppidum’s rampart. And he had made sure the tent door faced south, partially to prevent the sun pouring in at any time of the day, and partially to afford him a view of the valley below…

…or of several thousand clattering, clanking, roaring and swearing legionaries charging across his camp. His eyes widened in shock. More and more were pouring over the undefended stone wall. Two legions? Three? Four? He could see the flag and even the eagle of one of them making straight for him, an ‘X’, which he knew meant ‘ten’ to the Romans. And they were already in the camp, swarming among the tents and supply dumps, some pausing to light torches, preparing to burn the place.

The Nitiobrige king found himself using language that his wife had almost succeeded in suppressing over their long years of marriage as he tried to decide what he could do. He needed his sword; his armour; his boots; something to eat and a lie down for preference…

What he actually
had time for
was to swear in a manner that would have his wife hitting him with a spoon and to run for his life. With a backward glance at the fine sword standing in the corner, which had been his father’s before him, Teutomarus ran from the tent door, his bare feet feeling every pebble and twig on the slope as the sun blasted his bare torso. His hand came round at a dreadful twinge to press on the sore spot at his back as he reached his horse, which was busy munching the few longer tufts of grass left here.

Nearby, a Roman officer, close to the ‘X’ standard, caught sight of him and ran towards him, half a dozen of his legionaries pelting alongside. The elderly king felt a moment of panic and, ignoring the sharp wrench across his lumbar region, bent double and wrenched out the iron piton that tethered his beautiful horse.

With a yelp of pain, he tried to straighten again, but discovered that his body would not allow him, limiting him once more to a stoop. With difficulty and pain, the old king grasped the reins and hauled himself up to the beast’s back. His saddle was in the corner of his tent too, and he hadn’t ridden bareback since his youth. Grasping the reins and whimpering, he tried to gee the beast up. His horse seemed to be having the same sort of morning as him, and it took a lot more effort than he was really willing to put in to get the beast moving.

The Roman officer was close now, his shining cuirass and red tunic bright in the morning sun, as was the fine, decorative blade he held high.