What the hell is he doing? Cavarinos had thought. We almost had the Bituriges cut off, until this new turn of argument. But as he listened a thought had dawned upon him, and everything had quickly fallen into place. Claiming such mandate, the nobleman could act on behalf of Rome without having to actually apprise the legions of anything that was happening. In another genius stroke, the magistrate had kept all these matters from reaching the ears of the Roman commanders. Was that worth the potential threat to Vercingetorix of an Aedui relief army? More than likely. After all, the Romans had to be kept in the dark no matter what happened.
‘We will take a large force of cavalry and infantry to aid the Bituriges,’ the magistrate had announced, and once the approving and affirmative buzz had died down, the council had argued briefly before assigning command of that force to the same young Litavicus who had guided Cavarinos to the oppidum a few days earlier.
And now here they were, a day and a half later, closing on the wide Liger River which drew a natural boundary between the territory of the two tribes as it wound north and west on its great journey to the cold, unforgiving sea. The half dozen Bituriges riders accompanied them, satisfied that their capital would now be saved by the Aedui. Cavarinos had hidden his serpentine Arverni arm-ring in his pack and appeared to all intents and purposes just one more horseman in a faceless crowd of Aedui warriors, hungry for blood. What would happen when this sizeable force reached the army at Avaricon, Cavarinos could hardly suspect.
The slightly frosted dew on the turf left a trail of hoof and boot prints a hundred paces wide as the column slowly but inexorably descended on their target. Cavarinos pinched the bridge of his nose and winced.
Vercingetorix had tasked him with supporting Litavicus in his plan, though the niceties of that plan had been basic and vague at best. Neither Vercingetorix nor Litavicus had imparted the details to him, barring the basic essentials, in the knowledge that this way, should he be discovered, he could not imperil the whole plot. But once Litavicus had left the meeting with the Arverni king, Cavarinos had also been given the quiet word to make sure that the young Aeduan did not switch sides once more and betray them all.
So the Aeduan force was riding on Avaricon. What to do now? Trust that the traitor had something up his sleeve, or try and find a way to stop the advance? He had pondered the choice time and again since they left Bibracte, but continued to go along with Litavicus based solely on the premise that if the man intended further betrayals, there would be no reason to preserve Cavarinos’ anonymity and he would have been revealed and dealt with brutally. The Arverni noble’s ongoing survival suggested that Litavicus was still with them.
‘The bridge,’ called one of the warriors at the van, his breath pluming impressively as he rode back to the main force, which moved by necessity at a fast walking pace, limited by the speed of their slowest units. As the watery, cold sun neared its unimpressive apex, the army reached the slope that led down to the bridge across the Liger.
Cavarinos blinked.
On the rise above the far bank stood a force at least the size of their own, waiting. Two thousand warriors massed in three groups, with standards and carnyx horns rising above their heads and glittering in the pale light, a thousand more cavalry spread out in small parties among them. They waited before the treeline, but there were no birds in those trees, and that suggested the woods were also full of men - archers, perhaps? Before Cavarinos could express his own surprise, shouts and roars arose from the men surrounding him and the Aedui standards were waving to halt the column.
‘The magistrate was right!’
‘Traitorous dogs!’
‘What now?’
Chaos was pulled to order by the shouts of Litavicus and calls blasted through bronze horns. The six Bituriges among them were hustled back to the commander and, confused, Cavarinos edged his own mount back through the press to be within earshot.
‘Your purpose becomes clear!’ snarled Litavicus at the Bituriges riders before him. Cavarinos had to be impressed at the disgust and disdain prevalent in the man’s anger. It had clearly all been planned, so the young Aeduan was apparently a consummate actor.
‘I do not understand,’ blabbered one of the half dozen Bituriges, his head snapping back and forth between the angry face of the Aeduan commander and the sizeable force gathered across the river.
‘Who are they?’ hissed Litavicus, jabbing an angry finger at the opposing army.
‘They must… must be Arverni,’ another of the six stuttered in panicked confusion.
‘Really? Squint against the light and tell me what standards you see among them.’
A suspicion settled on Cavarinos and he did just that, having to fight to keep a slow smile from spreading across his face. Barely visible, they were, but if you squinted and strained, you could just make them out.
‘Horses,’ admitted the deflated Biturige rider.
‘Yes. Braid-maned horses. Several of them. And I think you know what the braid-maned horse means?’
Yes, Cavarinos thought, his mind working fast to put this puzzle together, Bituriges. They were the horse-standards of the Bituriges!
‘But I do not understand,’ spluttered the panicked rider. ‘How did they leave the oppidum? The Arverni must have left…fled the area…’
Cavarinos was fighting to keep that smile contained. He had seen unbraided horses on other standards… those of Vercingetorix’s staunch allies, the Carnutes, for example. The Carnutes, who were so deeply involved that they had loosed the first arrow of the war. Whose lands were close by, to the north, a stone’s throw from Avaricon. The Carnutes who’d had no task as yet but to join the main force at Avaricon. So long as the Aedui and the six panicked Bituriges did not make that same connection… time to nudge them further into suspicion of treachery.
He coughed to disguise the slight bark of laughter that had escaped despite all his efforts. ‘No,’ he announced, and for the first time Litavicus looked over at him. Cavarinos pointed at the army across the river. ‘As well as the many boars and the few braided horses, in the two larger groups, see the winged serpent of the Arverni among the third. Betrayal!’ he announced, echoing the thoughts rushing through the assembled force. ‘They seek to entrap us and thus weaken our tribe.’
Without warning, three of the Bituriges kicked their horses into action, fleeing the scene. Only two of them made it past the vanguard’s thrusting weapons, the third receiving a bronze spear point through the spine for his troubles, the shaft waving for a moment before the man fell from his steed and nearby Aeduan warriors rushed over to hack the unfortunate to pieces. From the angle at which he rode, it appeared that one of those pair who had made it was now living on time borrowed from the halls of the dead, clutching his side as a steady spray of crimson droplets left a trail across the green-white grass.
Before Cavarinos could say anything more, in anger, the assembled Aedui had slain the remaining three Bituriges among them, hacking at their necks with swords and impaling their torsos on long spears. One of the more rabid Aeduan riders made to follow the fleeing pair, his already-blooded sword brandished, but Litavicus called them back.
‘Leave them to their fate,’ he ordered. ‘This fight is not for us. Let the treacherous Bituriges wallow under the rule of the Arverni. Back to Bibracte!’ He managed to catch Cavarinos’ eye for a heartbeat as he turned, and there was a barely-perceptible nod. The job was done.
The force slowly turned, putting its back to the mysterious force of Arverni and Bituriges and making for the great oppidum of Bibracte once more. Cavarinos gave the army across the river a last brief glance, picturing them removing the wooden braids they had used to turn Carnute standards into Biturige ones. He wished he could see the trapped tribes folk in Avaricon when those two riders made it back to tell them that the Aedui were not coming and that they were on their own. The leaders’ resolve to defy Vercingetorix would crumble within the hour!
The Arverni noble kicked his horse on with the r
est of the Aedui horsemen, allowing himself to drop towards the rear of the force. He would have to wait until dark to slip away from the retreating Aedui and return to the army of his kin. He would not have a chance to speak to Litavicus, but the young warrior had played his part and played it well, and Cavarinos had no doubt that they would meet again soon enough.
* * * * *
Cavarinos slung his heavy saddle bag to the damp turf outside Vercingetorix’ tent, a proud leather edifice bearing the name of some important Roman, which had been confiscated along with most of the interior furnishings from a cart in a Roman convoy near Vesontio early in the year. He knew his brother hated the thing, but the Romans made practical, durable kit, whatever else you thought of them, and the king of the Arverni couldn’t have hoped for a better campaigning tent.
The two men standing nearby had merely nodded to him as he arrived and he pushed his way inside without challenge. Vercingetorix sat on a plump, dark red cushion that was made from some smooth material Cavarinos had heard came all the way from the lands of the Seres, far over the mountains to the east of Greece. Nearby, Critognatos sat on a smooth log, showing disdain for such Roman luxuries. Vergasillaunus lounged in a wooden chair. None of the others were present, which was a great relief to Cavarinos, given the aches in his bones and the weary fug in his head following a ride at breakneck pace from the fleeing Aeduan force a few hours earlier. His horse would take a while to recover, and Cavarinos could do with a day or two’s sleep himself.
‘The hero returns,’ grinned Vergasillaunus. ‘How did you like our surprise?’
Cavarinos laughed a tired laugh and with a respectful nod at the king, sunk into the comfiest chair he could see, a Roman one lined with thin velvet cushions.
‘It surprised me, but you should have seen the look on the rest of the faces.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘I have to say that I was half-convinced that Litavicus was playing us false until the last moment. But he held it together well. The Aedui will be convinced that their allies have deserted them and come over to us.’
‘Which,’ Vergasillaunus grinned, ‘is precisely what will now happen, of course.’
‘Neatly done. And, of course, the Aedui will begin to think on the value of their oath to Rome in the knowledge that Caesar and his army are separated and their supply and communication lines ruined, while our army grows ever stronger. They might not be ready to commit yet, mind, even with traitors working for us from within.’
Vergasillaunus nodded. ‘But we must have them. When we have the Aedui, a dozen other wavering tribes will throw in their lot with us.’
The Arverni king cracked his knuckles, drawing silence from the tent. ‘We will stay here at Avaricon until all is settled to our satisfaction. The survivors of your little foray made their way back into the oppidum an hour or two before you returned and this night the whole tribe will panic, debate, argue and hide their valuables. Then, in the morning, I expect to see their deputation come forth with the desire to join us. I anticipate a week or more, though, before we can be certain that things are correct here, and in that time I will draw a sizeable force from them to bolster our army. Then, in due course, we will move on west, against the Boii oppidum of Gorgobina. The Boii also live within Aedui protection and their fall to us will help weaken the Aedui’s resolve. I see this as the last series of moves before we are ready to face the legions. Gorgobina will be flattened and the Boii annihilated. The Aedui will realise they are alone. They will send to the Romans for aid, but their commander in the field is careful and prudent. He will not commit to them without his general’s consent, for he will fear another winter that sees the loss of entire legions. The Aedui will be truly isolated, and our traitors will turn them to us. Then, with the aid of the reticent tribes of the northwest, we will become a vast horde, easily capable of swatting the ten legions in the north. All is proceeding as expected, my friends. But we must be cunning and political and not deviate from the plan.’
Cavarinos nodded his understanding, though there was an unhappy rumble from his brother. Critognatos stirred and ran his fingers through his beard, ripping out the tangles in the matted hair. ‘So you trick our neighbours into distrusting one another, and now you will destroy a small tribe just to shake the resolve of a larger one. Why bother fighting the Romans at all, when we can be just like them?’
He spat on the floor, and Cavarinos noted the slight narrowing of their king’s eyes at such behaviour in his tent.
‘I do not expect you to make war on other tribes, Critognatos,’ the king said in icy tones. ‘You have made your opinions abundantly clear. I have another task for you. The Carnutes have sent a reasonable force south to join us - enough to fool and worry the Aedui, but not half as many as I was expecting. And the Senones as yet send no one, despite their promises. You are concerned that we risk our forces when we should be increasing them? Then I task you with riding north alongside a few good men to visit the tribes and remind them of their loyalties. Draw from them more promises of warriors and make sure those promises are held to and that the reinforcements are sent to join us here.’
Critognatos’ face showed a modicum of disappointment that he was still not being sent to kill Romans, but the knowledge that he would not now be required to fight other tribes, and the faint tang of pride in the importance of the task assigned to him got the better of him, and he nodded with a rare smile. ‘To the Carnutes and the Senones to begin with, then?’
‘And then the Cenomani, the Meldi and the Parisi. And follow up on anything you might come across on other local tribes on your journey. Do not get too close to the Roman forces up there, though. Caesar’s pet war-dog Labienus is in that region, and he is a dangerous man. He would not leap to the aid of the Aedui, but he will not countenance rebels stirring up the local tribes. Use your initiative.’
Cavarinos fought the urge to roll his eyes at the tying of the word ‘initiative’ with his brother, but as Critognatos nodded he saw a look pass between the commanding cousins. Just for a moment he wondered whether the pair might even have considered this duty in the north solely to rid themselves of the difficult chieftain for a time.
‘And you, Cavarinos,’ Vergasillaunus said, still with that twinkling smile.
‘Me?’
‘I am afraid,’ Vercingetorix sighed, ‘you will have little time to rest. Take tonight to recover from your time among the Aedui, for tomorrow you ride north with your brother.’
A cold stone of disappointment settled in Cavarinos’ stomach. ‘But…’
‘No.’ Vercingetorix’s face took on the look that Cavarinos knew brooked no argument, so he fell silent. ‘I have another task for you,’ the king continued. ‘A young uidluias seer with a great reputation for lore and for the sight joined us along with the Carnutes. She tells me that the ongoing depredations of the Romans has awoken the ire of the great god Ogmios and that the lord of words and corpses has bent his strength and will to a new curse with them in mind.’
Cavarinos had to fight once more to hold in his contempt. Ogmios, the Lord of Words. Unlike the common curse tablets, etched by the desperate in the hope of Divine interference and cast into holy springs, his curse tablets came written by the god’s hand, straight from the sky, it was said, and only during the worst storms, amid the crash of thunder and the flare of lightning. They were rarer than a bird flying backwards. Kings and chieftains had fought wars over the ownership of one of the insipid artefacts. Priceless, they were. And as far as Cavarinos was concerned, prime superstitious bullshit.
‘You would send me to the shepherds of the ways to collect a curse? It is wasted effort. Send me instead to procure weapons, horses and men, for it is they who will help us beat Rome. Not the trickery and tomfoolery of druids.’
Vercingetorix’s face still held that fixed expression, defying him to push his luck. But Cavarinos’ opinion of druids and curses and such drivel was well-known among his peers. That the king would even consider sending him bowing and scraping to the dru
ids was little short of an insult.
‘I detest their kind and their attempts to control all the tribes and chieftains of the land. And they know it, too. There is every chance that they will refuse me upon sight. Send me to rouse the tribes and send Critognatos to fawn to the shepherds. He believes in them.’
Vercingetorix had the grace to look faintly apologetic. ‘In truth, my friend, I know all these things, and it was in neither my mind nor my heart to send you.’
‘Then why order it?’
‘Because the uidluias who told me of the curse also told me that only you can find it and wield it. Curious, the ways of gods, are they not?’
Cavarinos opened his mouth to argue, but instead looked at the three faces arrayed before him. Neither of the leaders would ever submit to the power of the druids, but both still respected their power and held them in esteem. And as for Critognatos: well, Cavarinos would find no help there. The uidluias had spoken the will of gods, and her voice carried a thousand times the weight of his to their ears. Argument was futile. He sighed. ‘Where do I start?’
‘The greatest nemeton and gathering of the shepherds is in Carnute lands, and there Ogmios is strong. That would seem the place to begin.’
* * * * *
‘We should have come through the mountains,’ grunted the heavy-set Cadurci warrior with the grisly necklace. Lucterius, his chief and superior in every manner barring foulness of appearance, shook his head, glancing distastefully at the necklace, formed of four dozen Roman teeth, each one selected and removed while its owner was still conscious, and threaded onto the cord with a hole drilled through the enamel. It might be common practice for the warriors to gather gruesome mementos, even down to the preserved Roman heads that he knew his cousin kept in his house, but the clatter and rattle of these particular souvenirs always set Lucterius’ own teeth on edge.
The Great Revolt Page 5