Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (5 page)

Before Critognatos could launch himself at his brother, Vergasillaunus stepped into the way.

‘Listen to me, Critognatos. The Bituriges are one of many tribes that still waver and hold true to their oath with Rome. If we are to truly gather all the strength of the tribes, we have to tear away the invisible ropes that bind them to Caesar. We start with the Bituriges because they are close to us and they are still weak, and because they lie between us and the Carnutes, our staunch allies. We have but to take Avaricon from them and the whole tribe will fold under the pressure and pledge to us. And when they do, other tribes will follow.’

‘Like the Aedui?’ Cavarinos asked, a calculating expression filling his handsome, bronzed face.

‘Yes, like the Aedui. They are Caesar’s strongest allies in our lands.’

‘Then that is why Litavicus of the Aedui was here this morning, prowling around, lurking like a bad smell? I never trusted that young madman, even when we and the Aedui were close.’

Vergasillaunus chuckled. ‘You do not miss a thing, do you, my friend? Yes, Litavicus was here to speak to the chief on very private matters.’

‘I still do not like this,’ grunted Critognatos, rubbing his head vigorously until a few dead insects fell out of it with the cloud of dust. ‘We began all this to drive out the Romans, and yet we lead our warriors to their death against other tribes who should be revelling in battle alongside us. We should all be one army, marching across the mountains down to Rome and doing what Brennus did centuries ago, ripping the heads off their priests and pissing down their hollow necks!’

‘Idiot,’ snorted Cavarinos, and Vergasillaunus had again to make his presence felt as Critognatos stopped scratting and lunged forward for his brother, his face purpling with anger.

‘Now, now, children. Enough of this.’ He stepped back, opening a small space between himself and the furious nobleman, lifting his manicured hands and placing them on the bigger man’s shoulders. ‘We would all love to march on Rome and tear down their Gods, my friend, and some of the
druids
have been advocating that very thing. But with ten legions encamped in the north, what do you think would happen if we marched to Rome?’

Critognatos glowered sullenly but made no reply.

‘They would utterly destroy our lands. When we came back there would be no homes to return to. We would find only smoking ruins, murdered women, children and greybeards, and many thousands of sated Roman legionaries.’

‘I still don’t like fighting other tribes when there are Romans about who are more deserving.’

Vergasillaunus, his face starting to show rare signs of ire, grasped the trembling form of Critognatos and with some force turned him towards the exit. Urging him forward, he grasped the handle and ripped open the door. ‘What do you see, Critognatos of the Arverni?’

Past the pair, Cavarinos could make out the seething mass of Arverni warriors who waited patiently for their chieftains to arrive and then set forth against the Bituriges. Every man out there was ready for battle, from the older men who wore their shirts of mail and gripped well-worn sword hilts, past the rising cream of the tribe - the younger bloods who bore their captured Roman arms and armour as trophies - to the farmers and craftsmen and the youngest - not yet old enough to grow a moustache and bare-chested, gripping their poor-quality spears. Cavarinos bore the suspicion that Vercingetorix and his cousin had plans in place to bring over the Bituriges without a fight, but if it came to storming Avaricon, every man here would do so willingly for their leader. It was glorious. It was a proud thing for the Arverni. It was a potential waste of epic proportions, though he would hardly voice any thought that seemed like agreement with Critognatos. Cavarinos’ bitter thoughts were overridden as his brother answered the question

‘I see an army that should be fighting Romans.’

‘What you see here, Critognatos,’ the senior chieftain replied patiently, ‘is somewhere in the region of six or seven thousand men. Lucterius has just taken two thousand more south and expects to triple that on his journey. So this morning there were perhaps nine thousand men here. How many Romans are quartered in the north this winter?’

Critognatos cleared his throat. ‘Ten legions.’

‘Yes. Ten legions. That means fifty thousand men if they are at full strength, which they might well be after months of idleness. And that is not counting their auxiliary archers and slingers and the many thousands of horsemen raised from the Belgae and other tribes who ally with them. It would be foolish indeed to take nine thousand men against fifty thousand, would it not?’

The grumbling brother made faintly affirmative noises.

‘And even if we drew in all the allies who have pledged to us so far, we will still not match their numbers. We have to have the rest of the tribes on our side if we are to beat Rome. And if we wish to do so, we need to catch them at their lowest time, while they are still in winter quarters and their general is still across the Alpes. We will be ready to move before the spring, my friend, but we cannot move until we are strong enough to be at least reasonably assured of success.’

He slapped the irritable warrior on the shoulder in a supportive manner.

‘We all think we have different ways to succeed, Critognatos, and Vercingetorix and I have considered every possible angle and each idea that has been brought before us, but this is the only sensible direction to take. Trust us, my friend. We may all have different thoughts on the matter, but we all have the same goal in mind: to crush the Romans and free our lands for ourselves.’

Cavarinos watched as the pair walked out into the cold sunlight and the door shut behind them with a heavy thump as the conversation went on, Vergasillaunus doing his best to persuade Critognatos of the sense of his words.

For a long moment Cavarinos stood alone in the room, trying not to let that same scene replay itself in his mind which had been rising in his dreams so many nights now. Yet again, he failed.

A tavern in the Aedui capital of Bibracte less than a year ago
. He and Vergasillaunus and a number of the stronger warriors of the warband accompanying Vercingetorix as he sat at a table and talked of matters with the Roman officers who happened to be passing through.

He remembered the Roman commander well. A man with the look of a survivor of many battles, yet with eyes that glittered with intellect and who spoke to Vercingetorix as to an equal. Dressed in Roman tunic, and yet with a good torc of Belgic design around his neck. And with him not the pasty-skinned senatorial officers from Rome, but a weathered legionary who reeked of common sense and earthiness, an ebony-skinned man from the lands beyond the south sea, and a noble of the Remi, masters of horse.

Most of all, he remembered the tingle of hope he had felt when Vercingetorix and the Roman had spoken. There had been a level of respect and understanding between them that he had not expected. When the great chief had broached the subject of a peaceful solution, albeit one Vercingetorix had never for a moment believed in, the Roman had seemed surprisingly receptive.

From the first days when the Arverni had watched Caesar’s legions march into the lands just north of them, following the Helvetii, Cavarinos had been champing at the bit to bring war against the legions, and it had taken five long years for anything to happen, to bring the possibility of opposition. Over that time the Roman presence here had grown each year, with ever more legionaries stationed among the tribes, bringing death and fire. And Cavarinos had left the oppidum of Nemossos with his brother and joined Vercingetorix and Vergasillaunus at Gergovia and begun the great task of uniting the tribes.

But now he was beginning to feel shaky on the whole subject, though he would never have admitted as such to any of his companions. Since that meeting in Bibracte with the Roman officer, he had time and again questioned in his own head the need for a grand rising and battle, when weighed against the possibility of peaceful terms. The very idea that there could be concord without such bloodshed was tempting fruit. But the shepherds of the people were rabid these days. They would not stop now until they had opened the gut of every last Roman on their flat stones. And Vercingetorix? What of him? Cavarinos had long suspected that what had driven the great chief had not been so much the need to drive out Rome, but rather the desire to unite the tribes of what Romans called ‘Gaul’ under his own royal thumb.

He shook his head.

It was just a dream of peace… an ephemeral mirage that shifted under scrutiny and showed itself to be in fact a scene of bare-faced war. Whether negotiation had ever been a possibility, things had now gone too far. And even if he had still clutched to the idea that terms might be agreed, now Lucterius marched south with two thousand bloodthirsty warriors, gathering other tribes as he passed with the Roman city of Narbo in his sights. It would take weeks for the warband to reach Narbonensis gathering men as it went, but the moment that warband crossed the invisible but all-so-important line into Roman lands, any hope of a peaceful solution was gone forever. Cavarinos might not know Caesar and his like well, but he was clear on that nonetheless.

Lucterius would destroy the meagre garrison of Narbonensis easily and with that one strike he would begin the war. Caesar would rush to wrap things up and return to his legions, but by the time he moved to the north and reached them, the army of Vercingetorix would be a rival for his legions; the largest force the tribes had ever assembled.

The last battle was coming, and before winter either Caesar or Vercingetorix would find themselves in total control of the land. And how could Caesar possibly learn of all this, mobilise and reach his army in the north before it was all too late?

With a sigh, Cavarinos shook all this foolishness from his head, walked to the door and stepped outside, just in time to see Vercingetorix arriving to greet his army.

* * * * *

Aquileia, seat of the Governor of Cisalpine Gaul

Aulus Ingenuus, prefect in command of Caesar’s praetorian cavalry guard, fiddled with the buckle on his baldric, the missing fingers on his right hand making the task difficult. Over the past six years since he had lost those fingers in battle and found favour with the general he had managed to train himself to write with his left hand. He was now a reasonably effective swordsman with the left, and could manage almost any task assigned to him, but a fibula - a decorative buckle - was still troublesome.

‘Damn the thing!’ he snapped angrily, almost dropping his sword on the floor, but his slave was there instantly, grasping the scabbard and lifting it as he fastened the buckle for his master. Recovering his mood, Ingenuus nodded the little Syrian his thanks and adjusted the blade so that it hung just right before stringing his belt around his middle and waiting patiently while the slave fastened that too.

He really should just let the slave do it all, but it was a constant niggle to the young commander that such a simple, mundane task was still beyond him, and he would never stop trying.

Brushing back his hair, which would need cutting soon, he looked himself up and down in the bronze mirror. A mature soldier with slightly haunted eyes, well-muscled arms and legs, no few scars visible as narrow white lines, and a strong jaw looked back at him.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered, in his head still the young cavalry decurion who had distinguished himself those six years ago.

‘Your pardon, Dominus?’ queried the slave.

‘Nothing, Elyas. Make my bed and go into the town. See if you can procure me some fruit that’s not an apple for a change.’

Ignoring the bow and retreat of the slave, Ingenuus gave himself one last critical look in the mirror and then nodded his approval before opening the door, strolling out of the room and into the corridor beyond.

The palace was quiet,
unusually
quiet for this time of the morning, and Ingenuus’ superstitious mind told him that was a sign of bad times to come. Most of the staff were not officially supposed to start this early, of course, but the Proconsul slept little and light and was rarely still abed when Aurora wafted her rosy fingers across the horizon. And with Caesar being active early, it was a courageous underling who slept later and took advantage of the letter of the law.

Squaring his shoulders, he set off on his usual morning rounds. Through a series of corridors lined with marble busts, painted in lifelike colours and recently touched-up at the general’s request he strode until he reached the front entrance to the palace and the steps down to the main street of Aquileia. The two men on guard there were perfectly turned-out and standing to attention just as he’d expected. His cavalry were all good men. Over the years he had weeded out the few who were not up to scratch and replaced them with chosen men from other mounted units, drawn by the prestige and the pay in equal amounts.

With a nod to the two men, he turned back inside and marched on through the corridors to the office of his clerk, who was busy scribbling tiny scratched marks on a wax tablet behind a desk overburdened with documentation. The clerk only looked up as the door opened, but he was on his feet before Ingenuus came to a stop, the stylus forgotten and lying on the desk.

‘Good morning, prefect.’

‘Morning, Strabo. What’s the news today?’

Without having to look down at his records, the clerk cleared his throat. ‘Largus and Satrius still in the hospital, sir. Largus does not seem to be throwing off the illness, but there is no blood in his sputum, so the medicus tells me it is only a matter of time and recuperation. Satrius is now hobbling, sir, but will be out of action for at least a week still, and will only be fit for light duties for a further two. You have two pending requests for leave before the campaigning season begins.’

‘And your opinion on those, Strabo?’

‘Frankly, sir, I would turn down Allidius, as his home is south of Rome and the journey time would make any leave finish perilously close to when he might be needed. Rectus is only from Cremona though, sir. He could be there and back in short order.’