Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (48 page)

‘We need Labienus and his legions. It’s time to combine the army once more and put an end to this.’

‘That might not be so simple,’ Antonius said carefully. ‘They’ve burned the bridges again and word is that large groups of enemy horse rove the lands north of here, disrupting communications and any further attempts at supply.’

‘I do not care, Antonius. Find me a ford shallow enough to cross. No small warband will face us on the far side. And for the first time in this entire campaign, we are moving ahead of our enemies, so the lands north of here have not been burned clear of crops and farms. We can forage as we go. Communications may be impossible with the north, but Labienus will still be in contact with Agedincum as his home base. We make for there. And as soon as we have the army whole, I will have this Arvernian king’s head on a spike.’

* * * * *

Cavarinos rode his horse up the steep slope to Bibracte’s western gate with a curious sense of disjointed familiarity. He had been here several times this year, but always in disguise or with some kind of subterfuge, effecting entry with the aid of rebellious elements and fearing what might happen if he were revealed as Arverni to the populace. To be riding towards that wall with his serpent arm-ring in evidence, the standards of the Arverni wavering about them and the rebel king at his side felt distinctly odd. He felt as though he ought to be shrinking down and hiding himself.

‘And so begins a new chapter in our land’s history, eh, Cavarinos?’ Vercingetorix smiled as they approached the gate to the cheers of Aeduan citizens by the roadside.

‘I really hope so. We have Caesar on the defensive now, and we mustn’t let up. Give that man a breather, and you know he’ll recover.’

‘Then we must continue to push him,’ the king smiled, earning an encouraging nod from Vergasillaunus and Critognatos at the far side. Behind them rode the other leaders of the army, including two of Bibracte’s greatest heroes: Teutomarus of the Nitiobriges, who had lost everything in the battle, but had managed to sound the alarm and save the day, and Lucterius of the Cadurci, whose incredible cavalry advance down a slope thought too steep for horses had all but demolished the Eighth legion.

The noise as they passed through the gate and into the great capital of the Aedui was astonishing. It seemed as though the whole tribe lined the streets, standing in doorways and windows, cheering the man who had beaten Caesar. Cavarinos gave up attempting to converse and simply took in every detail of the oppidum he had only seen before from beneath a veil of subterfuge.

The place was probably the greatest oppidum and city of all the tribes. No, it did not have the impressive defences of Gergovia, or the protective swamps of Avaricon. No it did not have the trade of Cenabum or the sacred places of the Carnute cities. But it was all things at once. It was huge - sprawling over a massive mountain and with a double encirclement of ramparts towering over steep slopes. It was sacred, for here was the most powerful place in the land, where often councils of tribes had met and decided the destiny of their peoples. Here was fed by sacred springs that made the place difficult to besiege effectively, and at the same time mystical and powerful among the druids. And here was a thriving centre of industry and commerce. Here was a city that was still inimitably Aeduan, and yet had taken enough architecturally from the Romans who had patronised it for so long, that its buildings were strong, graceful and well-equipped.

And here was now the place where the future of the land and its tribes would be decided once again. Cavarinos had felt his conviction over this entire war shaken once or twice over the past few months, and had been close at times to throwing down his sword and riding off into the countryside to settle in peace somewhere. But seeing this gave him some hope that what they were doing was not only possible, but was in fact also worthwhile and justified.

He smiled easily as they rounded a curve to the right in the main street, rising still. Up to the right, between smaller rough houses, he could see an open space which he knew to be the
nemeton
of Bibracte’s druids and the field of assembly before it. Down to the left, he could see residential streets reaching right to the inner rampart.

The Aeduan noble who had been sent to escort the esteemed visitors into the city rattled off facts and figures, tales and anecdotes as they rode, gesturing to various places, and the rebel officers nodded as if they cared, trying to please their hosts.

Around another bend, this time to the left, and an open area on the lower slopes to the side of the road created a clearing around a pool formed by a spring that flowed from a carved spout in the hillside.

‘The sanctuary of the cold fountains,’ intoned their guide, throwing his arm out towards it. Cavarinos noted the place with more interest than the others, remembering how Litavicus had claimed his uncle to be the attendant here, and how the place had been intimately involved in the rise of Convictolitanis, who had finally delivered the Aedui to Vercingetorix.

His ears caught a discordant noise among the din and he concentrated, frowning. There it was again: a scream amid the cheers. His hand went to the shoulder of the king by his side, and the two men slowed their horses as the rest of the nobles and leaders with them paused in confusion.

‘What is it?’ Vercingetorix asked quietly.

‘Listen. Down there.’

Both men waited, though not for long before another scream rent the air. Though their guide was trying to urge them on, Vercingetorix waved him aside and the two Arverni stepped their horses down to the sanctuary clearing. Due to the slope of the hill and the spring’s source, something of a cliff some ten feet high had formed behind the pool, hiding from the road the scene that greeted them as they descended. By the time they reached the pool side, the two men could see clearly what was happening.

A man stripped to the waist raised a huge serrated sword and cast a prayer up to Taranis, and then took the blade to a figure tied to a T-shaped edifice before the cliff. The serrated edge sank deep into the man’s belly at the bottom of the rib-cage, and the half-naked man drew it back out agonisingly slowly, sawing up into the rib as he did so and bringing another unearthly scream, all the clearer up close and not lost amid the din. The crimson holes around the figure’s body told a tale of hours of torture. Moreover, the victim was not alone. A limp, ruined, bloody mess on a similar post next to him had been gone for a while, and two more waited, terrified, for his attention to turn to them. A man decked in noble clothes and gold- and bronzeware stood with his arms folded, watching.

‘What
is
this?’ demanded Cavarinos, jumping in ahead of his king. Behind them, the other chiefs and nobles of the army were joining them.

The man watching turned, and Cavarinos faintly recognised him. It took only a few heartbeats to click, and he frowned. ‘Viridomarus?’ One of the men who had given over the Aedui cavalry to Caesar! And yet here he was. Cavarinos turned to their guide, who had now descended with them.

‘What is this traitor doing here? He serves Caesar.’

‘
Served
Caesar,’ snapped the former traitor. ‘As did we all among the Aedui. But no more.’

Cavarinos frowned. He had to concede the point that during the Bibracte siege, the entire tribe still owed their oath to Rome. Besides, there was something more important preying on his mind right now.

‘What do you think you are doing?’

‘Killing hostages,’ shrugged Viridomarus casually.

‘What?’

‘The hostages Caesar had taken. The ones whose tribes have flocked to our banner have been sent back to their families. Those who hold to their oath with Rome are being executed as an extra incentive for their people to change their minds.’

‘That is barbaric and unacceptable,’ Cavarinos snapped. ‘How do you hope to attract faithful support with such cruelty?’

Behind him, Critognatos coughed. ‘Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. If they are not allies then they are enemies. Enemies deserve death. A Roman enemy might be killed with a sword blow in the field, but those of the tribes who support the enemy? Torture is their lot and I approve.’

Cavarinos turned to Vercingetorix. ‘This has to be stopped. Those men are the very people we fight for!’ His heart sank as he saw his king’s face.

‘No, Cavarinos. Your brother is correct. They have become the enemy. I might not have done things quite this way, but they are now the Aedui’s prisoners, and it is their choice how to proceed.’

‘We don’t serve the Aedui,’ Cavarinos growled. ‘They fight under
our
banner, not the other way round. It is in your power to stop this.’

‘Perhaps,’ the Arverni king conceded. ‘But it is not in my best interest to do so. Come. We have business above.’

Cavarinos stared at the rebel king’s back as the man wheeled his horse and climbed up to the road, his other men flocking close behind. Critognatos paused only long enough to throw a nasty look at him.

Is this what we’re fighting for?
Cavarinos thought to himself as he followed on, a hollowness within him. His eyes burned into his brother’s back as they climbed.

* * * * *

‘You are the
Arverni
king,’ Viridomarus roared, rising to his feet amid the general din of the council chamber. ‘Just because your tribe feel the need to raise a king above themselves is no reason to foist the same despot upon all of us.’

Eporedirix reached up a restraining hand and tried to calm his friend as the chamber ebbed and flowed with admonitions and praises.

‘I do not wish to be king of the Aedui,’ Vercingetorix said quietly, and yet in a tone that cut through the noise. ‘I do not
wish
to rule your tribe. But in this critical moment in all our histories, it is critical that the tribes all work together as one nation. And with each tribe’s force here under independent command in the same manner as the Romans have their legions, we can only hope to make the most of that manoeuvrability and flexibility with one overall commander. I have prosecuted this war successfully thus far, despite shocks, setbacks…and
treachery
.’ He aimed this last at Viridomarus, whose face was livid purple. After all, the two recently-arrived Aedui may have struck an excellent blow at Noviodunum, but all who were at Gergovia could remember the Aedui cavalry arriving to serve Caesar because of this pair’s actions.

Viridomarus exploded in incoherent rage, his friend trying to keep him under control, though his anger was too great for his speech to be truly intelligible. Similarly, at the far side of the chamber, Critognatos rose angrily to his feet and started to jab the air in the direction of the livid Aeduan with an accusatory finger, yelling insults and imprecations, as Cavarinos sat back and watched his brother, shaking his head in distaste at this pointless bickering. It occurred to him that if Critognatos and Viridomarus were to command this army, the tribes might win, but what they would win would be a blood-soaked land, empty of people and light, unable to support life.

‘The Aedui
should
lead.’ The voice of Convictolitanis, the magistrate who ruled the Aedui, cut through the cacophony in much the same way as the Arverni king’s had. The bickering faded away.

‘Explain?’ Vergasillaunus requested quietly.

‘We are the greatest of the tribes. I do not want to belittle your achievements, which are magnificent, and without your boldness and effort, none of this would have happened. But the Aedui are the largest, strongest and richest tribe. We know the Romans better than any of you. Our capital - this great oppidum in which you now sit - is the greatest in the land and has a history of moots for the tribes. The Romans are now in our lands, which makes us the sensible commanders and gives us the most to lose. Surely the logic of all this cannot escape you. And above all, we are an elected rulership, who can be legally deposed and replaced. There is no danger of us deciding to remain your overlord when Caesar is gone, which is, I think, a large part of what worries the other tribes.’

‘Then let us ask them,’ threw in a new voice.

The Aeduan magistrate and the Arverni king, as well as most other eyes in the room, turned on Cavarinos, who shrugged.

‘The Aedui make a good case. I cannot deny it. And yet they are new to this war, which Vercingetorix is winning, having forced Caesar onto the defensive. We can argue about our validity all day, but this is a matter which affects
all
the tribes. The Romans call us “Gaul” as though we were one nation and, as my king has said: we need to
be
one nation in order to defeat Rome. We need to
be
Gaul. Well unless I am much mistaken there are nobles and ambassadors present from almost every tribe this side of the Rhenus and the Hispanic mountains. The Treveri are missing, for they are busy with German incursions, and the Remi and Lingones do not attend, for they remain tied to Caesar, along with those peoples on the southern borders who have been Roman so long they have forgotten who they were. But every other tribe deserving of mention is here. Let us moot as we have for Caesar in the past. Let the vote be cast for the leadership of the army.’

Silence fell as all regarded Cavarinos, and finally Vercingetorix and Convictolitanis shared a look and nodded. The Aeduan magistrate turned to his right hand man. ‘Fetch the voting sherds.’

The man nodded and opened a chest at the rear of the council chamber, drawing from it a large, heavy leather bag. Passing around the room as the buzz of ordinary conversation returned in place of the roar of anger, the Aeduan guard handed to each tribe’s leader two pieces of broken pot, one bearing the scratched and painted image of a boar and the other a rearing horse.

Another man set a large amphora into a recess in the floor at the room’s centre and cleared his throat. ‘Every tribe gets one vote. Cast your sherd into the pot appropriately: The horse for Aedui leadership, the boar for Arverni.’