Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (57 page)

Lucterius’ eyes widened. He felt his blood begin to boil.

‘And he failed to save Novioduno, chased off by a band of hired Germans.’

The room was beginning to nod their agreement, and Lucterius spluttered angrily. ‘I saved Gergovia. And at the cavalry fight before Alesia I was the only one who managed to save some of the riders.’

‘You led a reckless, stupid charge at Gergovia, and you managed to run away from a cavalry fight,’ snapped Convictolitanis. ‘The Aedui will not entrust their new force to your care, and nor will any other here, I feel. Command your own Arverni and Cadurci contingent, Lucterius.’

The Cadurci chief hardly dared breathe for fear his temper should fail entirely and he cross the room and break the Aeduan magistrate in half.

‘Let Commius command the army,’ suggested the Carnute chief, bringing more nods from around the room.

‘A man who has wiped Caesar’s arse for five years now?’ retorted Lucterius angrily.

Commius simply regarded him with apparent sympathy. ‘I will lead the army if it is the wish of this gathering, though I would have each tribal contingent commanded by one of their own under my generalship.’

Lucterius stared, unable to believe how unexpectedly wrong things had gone here. As he listened to the room roar its consent and approval of the Atrebate chief’s appointment, all he could do now was hope that Commius was up to the job.

* * * * *

Cavarinos looked at the gathered leaders in this large structure built against the western walls of Alesia, their features lit by the dancing flames of the central fire pit.

‘We have to consider the possibility that Lucterius has failed, and that there is no help coming. We have no way to be sure that he even managed to make it past the Romans that night. None of the men made it back here.’

Vergasillaunus shook his head. ‘I am convinced he made it. And the druids confirmed it with questions to the gods and with auguries.’

‘The gods pay attention to such trivial matters, do they?’

‘We cannot afford to wait forever for an army that may or may not be coming,’ grunted Teutomarus. ‘Food is already becoming an issue. The Mandubii are eating more than we expected, and soon we will begin to starve.’

‘Perhaps Caesar would consider terms?’ asked one of the lesser chiefs in the darkened corner nervously. Cavarinos couldn’t help feel for the young man, but even though he himself would have approved of almost anything by now that avoided the fight to come, he knew as well as any of them that the time for talking was long past.’

‘There will be no surrender,’ Vercingetorix said with finality.

‘A fight, then,’ Teutomarus said quietly. ‘Time to sally out and try and take them?’

‘Foolish,’ countered the king. ‘It has been almost two weeks. Their defences are complete and their legions encamped and our numerous forays found no weak spots. Caesar and his generals have laid their siege carefully. Any attack would be inviting our complete destruction. Without the aid of a relief force, we are doomed. And I still have heart that Lucterius will bring us those men. We will not take the fight to the Romans until relief arrives or until we are starting to die and there is no other choice. We must therefore seek measures to extend our stay here.’

‘Let no one speak of capitulation,’ snarled Critognatos, standing. ‘Cowards are worse warriors than corpses. I would suggest that
that man
,’ he pointed at the nervous chieftain in the corner, ‘be ejected from the city and relieved of his command.’

‘Out of the question,’ said Vercingetorix, and Critognatos harrumphed.

‘A sally would be wasteful,’ the big noble rumbled. ‘We have thrown enough hundred to the Roman she-wolf in testing their defences to know that it is futile. The king is correct that we must wait for the relief, who
will
come. How could the tribes let us die here without support? And look to the Romans’ siege works: they defend themselves not only against us, but against an unseen enemy from beyond. The
Romans
know that relief is coming. So the king is right: we must endure until then.’

Cavarinos narrowed his eyes. Such sense and reason seemed so far out of character for his brother that he waited with bated breath for the catch.

Critognatos rolled his shoulders and spread his hands.

‘Who here does not know the tales of our ancient heroes? Who does not know of the war against the Teutones and the Cimbri? Our grandfathers and great grandfathers fought those invaders who had crossed the Rhenus, and when they found themselves trapped in the same manner as us, what did they do?’

No!

Cavarinos felt his blood chill. All knew of that story, though few spoke of it.
There
was the catch.
There
was Critognatos’ casual inhumanity bubbling to the surface, just as he’d expected.

‘Yes. It seems unthinkable. But our ancestors survived siege and great privation through such sacrifice. In such times of war, women, children, the old and the wounded are nothing but a drain on supplies. In the face of the Cimbri, such folk - useless to the war - had the honour and sense to take their own life and not burden the army with their continued presence.’

Vergasillaunus was shaking his head. ‘This is different. There the sacrificed were their own tribe. Here, we would be asking our
hosts
to do this unthinkable.’ His gaze slid to the Mandubian chief, whose eyes had bulged and face paled. ‘We cannot expect the Mandubii to take their own lives just to spare the grain for the rest of us.’

Cavarinos glared at his brother with distaste. ‘You’re suggesting more than that, aren’t you, Critognatos. Because we all know what happened to the bodies of those women and children.’

The room fell silent. No one would speak of the cannibalism that had risen among the besieged in those days. The survivors had outlasted the German onslaught by eating the corpses of those who could not fight. Almost every gaze in the room - barring the one nervous young chief who dare not - looked around at Critognatos, who simply shrugged.

‘This is war. In times of war we do what we must in order to win.’

Cavarinos snorted, but his brother bridled. ‘War makes unpleasant demands on everyone. This army had no compunction about burning cities and farms to prevent the Romans foraging. Or about abandoning unimportant settlements to death or slavery at their hands. We do what we must. How many children and women died because we burned their crops and butchered their animals? But you come out of that as master tacticians! This is no different.’

‘It is
entirely
different,’ snarled Cavarinos. ‘I will have no part in an army that would butcher the civilians here and eat their flesh just to drag out the war. I do not advocate surrender, and I would rather not launch myself at the Roman lines down there, but I damn well will not prolong my life at the expense of
children
!’

‘Then you will starve, we will lose, and those children will die anyway,’ said Critognatos with a sneer.

Before he knew it, Cavarinos was on his feet and growling, his hand going to the hilt of the sword at his side, contemptuous gaze fixed on his brother. In a heartbeat, Vergasillaunus was between then, his hands coming up to grip Cavarinos by the biceps. ‘Calm, my friend. Your brother just posits answers to our dilemma. We cannot and will not agree to such a measure.’

‘Though Critognatos’ suggestion does raise another possibility,’ said the king, his commanding tone cutting through the room and silencing the rising voices. All eyes turned to Vercingetorix, whose own gaze had fallen upon the Mandubian chieftain who ruled Alesia and whose face had drained of all colour in the past few moments.

‘My fearsome friend spoke hastily, but he is correct on one count: we cannot continue to feed those not involved in the war. It is my edict that every Mandubian who can raise a sword join the forces, and that the rest, including women and children and the old and ill pack their valuables. They will leave the oppidum by the south-western gate and seek passage through the Roman lines. The Romans are our enemies, but they pride themselves on being men of honour. They should let the civilians past, and they can then head south for the safety of Bibracte. And if the Romans cannot be persuaded to allow them passage by honour alone, they can buy it with their valuables.’

The Mandubian chief was shaking his head, his face despairing, but he could find no words to argue, for the king had spoken an edict and the decision had been made.

‘It is a waste,’ said Critognatos darkly.

‘What?’

‘The Romans will not let them leave. They will die before the legions’ defences, or they will come back here, and when they do we must be hard and not let them in to eat our grain once more, lest we all starve for it. But if they were to simply take a knife to their own throats, then the larders would fill with fresh meat and we would last weeks longer!’

Vergasillaunus lost his grip on Cavarinos as the angry noble ripped his arms free and threw himself at his brother.

‘You vile, sick, twisted bastard!’

Critognatos reeled under the first heavy punch and fell, enduring a flurry of blows before Cavarinos was pulled from him by three of the gathered chiefs. As the smaller of the two brothers was hauled back across room, flexing his knuckles and snarling imprecations, Critognatos rose with a malevolent grin, spitting out a broken tooth and wiping the smeared blood across his face.

‘Now
that
is the attitude that would win us the fight. See how my brother only gets his blood up when fighting his own.’

Cavarinos yelled and tried to break free of the restraining arms, his bloodied fists lunging.

‘Release the Mandubii, then,’ Critognatos spat out a wad of blood. ‘But heed my words. When they come crawling back, you cannot let them back in unless it is as meat.’

* * * * *

Fronto climbed the rampart and peered down at the scene before them.

Several thousand women, children, old men and invalids, some on carts, some with beasts of burden, everyone with a bag of their belongings. None armed or armoured. No warriors here. And many in floods of hysterical tears. He felt sick.

‘We don’t have to house them or feed them, Caesar, but the noble thing to do would be to let them through. They pose no threat to us.’

‘Not directly,’ the general replied, eyeing the distraught civilians with a neutral expression.

‘You cannot be seriously considering turning them down.’

‘I am doing just that, Fronto.’

‘What threat are they to us?’

‘None. But their very presence tells us that the rebels are beginning to find food in short supply. Why else would they send their womenfolk to us? They are conserving supplies. And that means that every mouth we allow past our defences eases the enemy’s situation.’

‘That’s cold, general.’

Caesar turned to Fronto. ‘We can be fairly sure that a relief force is on the way, the size of which is unknown. It could be massive. If there is any chance that we can bring Alesia to its knees before that happens, we must leap at it. We cannot let these people go free. This is war, Fronto, and we do what we must to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion as soon as possible.’

‘I understand that, Caesar. I do. But we are dealing with a general who burned his own people’s lands just to deny us food. Do you think for one moment Vercingetorix will let those people back into the city to resume their drain on his granaries?’

‘Probably not.’

‘And so those people will be trapped on the slopes and will starve and die beneath their own walls.’

‘Which will undoubtedly cause ructions and distress to the enemy up there. Imagine how you would feel if it were your wife or sister, Marcus.’

Fronto simply could not find a more convincing argument against the inhumanity of this course. Military logic wholly supported the general’s decision, but Fronto’s heart could not.

A voice called up beyond the wall in stilted, thickly-accented Latin, and the half-dozen assembled officers stepped to the parapet once more. In the wide flat stretch of ground between the initial wide ditch and the more wicked Roman defences, one of the Mandubian civilians had stepped forth. He was an old man, almost entirely balding and with a heavily-lined, careworn face.

‘Slave!’

‘What?’ asked Antonius, frowning.

‘We be slave!’

Fronto felt his heart sink slightly further. That the poor bastards might voluntarily offer themselves up for slavery told him with no uncertainty that the whole bunch were well aware of their position - little more than a burden to their own people and a weapon to the general. Some of the legionaries on the wall looked around at the officers hopefully. Slaves meant money, and every man in the army had made a small nest-egg with the funds from six years of slave caravans back south to Italia and Massilia and Narbo.

Fronto shook his head at the nearest one. ‘Eyes front!’

As the legionaries turned back, disappointed at such lost profit, Fronto raised his eyebrow at Caesar.

‘No,’ the general said finally, addressing the old man beyond the wall, the ditches, the pits and the sharpened stakes. ‘There will be no slavery here. You are not permitted to pass our lines and we have no need of you. Return to your city.’

‘Can… not,’ managed the old man in the unfamiliar tongue.

‘You have no choice. We cannot have you camped around our defences. You have the count of two hundred to take your beasts and carts and move back up the slope, or my scorpions and archers will start pinning limbs to the ground. Now go.’

As the man shook his head desperately, Caesar turned his glittering gaze on Fronto. ‘Give them a clear count of two hundred and then have the barrage begin.’

Fronto nodded unhappily, and the general turned to Antonius. ‘And tell the artillerists to aim for wounds, not kills. We want a deterrent to drive them back up the hill, not a thousand corpses to bury.

* * * * *

Cavarinos stood before the oppidum’s heavy wall, atop a steep incline where the greenery often gave way to striations of bare grey rock, the heat beginning to make the day tiresome already. A mile below and to the west he perused the most impressive section of the Roman siege works. No different in form really to the rest of the circuit, this section on the flat plain provided the best view and, because of the level ground, the twin ditches before the rampart were water-filled here. To the right hand - northern - edge of the plain, at the base of Mons Rea, the largest of the Roman camps sprawled across the lower slopes.