‘The mountains are all-but impassable at this time of year, and you know that. There is every chance we would have to dig our way through snow as deep as two men. This route was longer, but trust me, it was still quicker.’
The initial force of two thousand Cadurci warriors, augmented by men drawn from the Petrocorii, the Nitiobroges and the Volcae, now numbered in excess of six thousand, and that number would rise by at least another two thousand by nightfall, as the Ruteni had pledged horsemen, warriors and many of their infamous and deadly archers to the cause.
Lucterius looked along the narrow grassy valley ahead, which angled to the southeast and would deliver them into the lands of Roman Narbonensis in a matter of days. Above them, along the hillsides, thick, tangled forests kept their advance secret from potential onlookers, and the scouts ahead had as yet found no sign of Roman outposts.
The army had taken a circuitous route, curving out towards Aquitania and the western ocean before arcing back east and south, making the most of the gorges, narrow defiles and oft-unknown forest paths of the region. There was no chance, of course, that the Roman province knew they were coming, but Lucterius was nothing if not careful, and their route had taken them by secretive ways such that they would appear on the edge of Roman territory unnoticed and unexpected.
And without having to dig their way through a snowy pass…
He smiled to himself at what he imagined at the end of their journey: the freeing of the people. Narbonensis would fall, ripped from the Romans’ grasp and released from their endless taxes and uniformity and laws. And they would once again become a free land of Volcae, Tectosages, Arecomici and all the other tribes who had languished under Roman rule for so long. For it was no good Vercingetorix and his far-seeing Arverni raising all the tribes to fight back the Romans without freeing their captive brothers in the south after a century of domination.
He glanced back to see his force pouring through the valley behind him, skirting the low mound of some Ruteni town or other, where the men cheered this show of strength in the face of Roman rule, and the women leaned over the walls and, despite the bone-freezing chill, bared their breasts at the passing warriors, who laughed and called back in delight.
He could only imagine the different scene if they had come the direct route across the mountain passes. Instead of the inviting pink breasts of the local women, his men would be digging a path through packed snow and spending half the time burying their own dead and snapping off hardened blue-black toes.
No. He had suggested this route to Vercingetorix, and the Arverni king had been wholeheartedly in agreement. In less than a week they would be in Narbonensis and bringing fear, fire and the sword to all who held to Roman rule.
His own tribe were not so far north of here, to the south of the Arverni, and it had been Lucterius who had given the king the initial estimates of the garrison and approximations of the general strength of Narbonensis. But recent conversations with the few Volcae who still lived outside the borders of the republic and with the free Ruteni had supported his estimates.
The standing garrison of Narbo would number no more than a thousand. There were other Roman units scattered about the province, particularly to the west, furthest from Rome, but between them all not more than a thousand. That meant a rough figure of two thousand in the whole province. A quarter of the number that Lucterius brought south. And they were not battle-hardened veteran legionaries like Caesar’s troops, but slovenly, fat and untried garrison troops who had faced no threat in living memory.
Moreover, there was almost no chance of the entire force being brought together with less than a week’s notice, scattered as they were across the breadth of the province. And there was no more threat from the Roman forces down in the Iberian lands than there was from those in Caesar’s province on the far side of the Alpes.
Narbonensis was in his sight and would fall swiftly. He had already planned the next move, once they had thundered south and taken Narbo. All ships impounded, and the cavalry would split into smaller groups, racing east and west to secure all the main routes from the province while the rest would occupy Narbo and move on in groups to the other cities and ports, securing them as they went. Word of the province’s fall would have to be kept from Caesar’s ears for as long as possible. Then, and only then, would Vercingetorix be free to wipe out their presence in the north.
And the once-subjugated tribes would help bolster the rebel forces when they realised that they were free and the continuation of that freedom depended upon their willingness to fight for it. Narbonensis’ Roman garrison may be weak, but its defence by the native tribes would be a much different matter. Rome had been expanding for generations. This spring would signal the start of its reversal.
Briefly, he wondered whether the Greek council of Massilia could be persuaded from their alliance with Rome and into a collective allegiance with the tribes. All things were possible if you were bargaining from a strong enough position. Narbo first. Then the coast and the borders, and then the great population centres: Tolosa, Arelate and Massilia.
He smiled. The province was almost within his grasp now.
* * * * *
Fronto shifted his arm slightly to distribute the weight more comfortably and reached round, patting young Lucius on the back and then running his hand round in small circling motions.
‘This is not really seemly for a soldier,’ he said, almost under his breath.
Lucilia gave him an arch look and he lowered his eyes under that flinty gaze. ‘I’m just saying.’
‘You’re doing well. Lucius is almost settled. Soon he will be fast asleep. At least I gave you him and not his brother. I wonder if Marcus is so stubborn and difficult because I gave him your name?’
Fronto sighed and continued to circle his hand.
‘I’m hungry.’
His wife opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of slapping feet across marble drew their attention to the doorway that led into the Atrium. Slapping bare feet meant one of Fronto’s singulares bodyguards. Everyone else in the villa complex had soft leather shoes for household time, but the soldiers under Fronto’s command had refused the soft boots in favour of their nail-soled military wear, so in response Lucilia had denied them access to the house with those boots on.
Sure enough, Palmatus appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat on his approach to warn them, as if that were necessary. Fronto smiled as he looked down. Palmatus’ feet, hardened like old oak by decades of marching, rested carefully on the mosaic of branches and grapes. The former legionary had never exhibited strong signs of a superstitious nature, yet Fronto had seen him perform an odd skip in his step so as not to tread on the face of a god as he passed through a room. In fact, Fronto was thinking of having the room’s floor re-laid to make it more challenging and humorous for the commander of his guard.
‘Fronto?’
Palmatus winced as the new parents in the room beyond motioned for him to lower his voice, gesturing to the almost-sleeping twins.
‘Bad night,’ Fronto whispered.
‘I know. We heard. Not so much the boys shouting, but more your own complaining as you kept wandering round the villa trying to get them back to sleep.’
‘Serves you right for setting guards. I told you you didn’t need them here.’
‘What’s the use of a bodyguard that don’t actually guard you?’ Palmatus shook his head as if to wrench himself from the conversation. ‘Stop distracting me,’ he said, and realised his voice had risen again, so dropped it low. ‘You need to come out front and see this.’
Fronto frowned and glanced at Lucilia, who was gently lowering young Marcus into the blankets. She reached out to take Lucius from him. With Fronto she would argue the point, but she knew Palmatus well enough to know that such interruptions were never trivial. Fronto passed his son over to her.
‘What is it?’ he hissed as the pair left and crossed the atrium, Palmatus performing his usual dance routine to avoid the faces.
‘As I said: you need to see it.’
The two men strode through the atrium, nodding their respect to the altar of the lares and penates and to the small shrine of Janus who blessed their comings and goings. Despite the chill in the air, the villa’s main door remained open, as Lucilia vaunted the daily airing of the whole place, pronouncing it good for the health of the children, even though it made Fronto’s knee ache unbearably and made his sleep pattern patchy at best.
The villa’s owner stopped on the doorstep, his eyes rising across the courtyard and the two neat lawns enclosed by the waist-high perimeter wall. The open grassland beyond was being systematically churned to mud by the passage of nailed boots. ‘What in the name of Fortuna?’
‘More Mars, I’d say,’ Palmatus added. The pair watched as neatly turned-out legionaries stomped past the gate in the uncomfortable rhythm of the quick march. Whoever they were and wherever they were going, they seemed to be in a hurry.
‘The council of Massilia aren’t going to like this. They disapprove of whole legions entering their boundaries without prior consent. They get touchy when a there’s more than a dozen of us together, all armoured.’
Palmatus nodded, remembering the arguments they had had with the officials of the city in getting permission for Fronto’s singulares to enter the city with him armed and in force. Masgava and Aurelius traipsed over to join them from the building’s corner. ‘Notice something unusual about them yet, sir?’ Aurelius nudged.
‘They’re clean. That’s pretty damned odd for a start!’
‘No, sir. No insignia, sir. Can’t be a legion without insignia.’
Fronto frowned, but the singulares soldier was quite right. As he watched century after century of men go past there was not a hint of a standard or vexillum flag among them. ‘No standards? Then who are they?’
‘Dunno, sir,’ Aurelius replied. ‘But they had no eagle in the van either.’
Fronto pursed his lips. ‘Masgava? Run along to the barracks and have the men fall in, well turned-out and so fast they leave blurred lines in the air.’
Without questioning, the big Numidian ran off around the corner for the bunkhouse the singulares shared, Aurelius at his heel.
‘Why?’ Palmatus asked.
‘Caesar.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Who else would be marching through Massilia in the direction of Gaul with a legion so new they don’t even have a name or number?’ He glanced at Palmatus. The man was not armed or armoured, but he wore a neat, clean tunic and his military belt, and was already slipping on his nailed boots that had been waiting outside the door. He was neat enough to pass muster, especially since he had still not taken the army’s oath, serving in a non-standard unit outside the ranks of the legions.
Sure enough, as Fronto listened, he could hear the drumming of hooves as a small party of horsemen came trotting along the line of men, the gold-on-crimson Taurus flag of Caesar wavering in the cold wind above them.
‘Looks like we’ll be heading north early this year,’ Fronto hissed.
‘You knew he’d come quickly,’ Priscus replied, stepping out of the villa and lacing his boots hurriedly.
‘Shit. Galronus is still down in Campania. We’re going to have to go without him!’
Priscus gave him a sly grin. ‘I’ve met your sister, Fronto. Galronus has got plenty of his own battles in store without having to return to Gaul.’
The three men stood before the villa’s door as the small party of cavalry reached the gate and slowed, three riders dropping from their saddles, stretching in the manner of men who had been ahorse too long for comfort. Caesar looked bright and well, and his face, while it held no smile, did not appear perturbed as Fronto had expected. Aulus Ingenuus - the general’s praetorian commander - walked alongside easily, his hand resting calmly on the pommel of his gladius. The man at the other side brought a smile to Fronto’s face. He had not seen Brutus for some time, and the young officer’s presence brightened any occasion.
‘General,’ Fronto bowed his head, a gesture echoed by the men at his sides.
Caesar nodded in return as Ingenuus’ ever-watchful eyes inspected every corner of the building and Brutus smiled warmly. ‘Marcus. Gnaeus.’ His eyes picked out Palmatus and he simply nodded, unable to recall the man’s name. ‘Apologies for the unannounced visit, but we travelled as fast as any message might have done.’
‘And with a new legion?’
The general chuckled. ‘The bones and tendons of a legion, but without the muscle and skin as yet. They are far from ready, but are fully equipped and have had the introduction of basic training. They move and look like a legion, and they are still enthusiastic.’
Priscus shrugged. ‘They can be trained when we reach Agedincum and they combine with the rest of the legions. I presume we are to pack, general?’
Caesar smiled wearily. ‘Yes, but not this day. The recruits will encamp upon the heath above you for the night. We must away before the day wears on tomorrow, but I think everyone needs one night’s rest and it would be remiss of me to pass through without paying my respects to your charming wife and her father. And meeting your boys, of course. I bring gifts for them both.’
Fronto frowned. ‘How did you know…?’
‘I hear everything, Marcus. You know that.’ He looked past Fronto at Priscus, standing in the doorway. ‘I have decided to forego the peril of marching up the Rhodanus and into inevitable Gaulish traps, Prefect. We are bound instead for Narbo and the mountain passes into Arverni lands. I gather from your missive that you took that route in your escape, so perhaps you can tell me a little of what we face?’
As the general swept past them into the villa, uninvited and falling in side by side with Priscus, Fronto watched them, shaking his head. Every time Caesar appeared upon the scene, the play ran off-course from its text and all bets were off. He sighed.
‘Have you missed us, Fronto?’ Brutus chuckled.
Chapter 3
Valley 60 miles northwest of Narbo. Roman territory.
Lucterius glanced back over his shoulder. His small band of a dozen warriors were barely discernible, scrambling through the brush and trying not to make noise despite the frosty brittleness of the world, which waited impatiently for spring to return, bringing life and warmth. The army itself was not visible from here, safely secured around the spur of land up the valley. They had widely skirted the great metropolis the Romans called Tolosa days ago, taking care not to alert any Roman authorities to their presence.
It had been an interminable journey, and he knew that the army and the nobles who commanded it were restless, wishing nothing more than to be at the gates of Narbo putting Roman patricians to the sword. And even Lucterius, who was careful and knew the need for such a circuitous route, was grateful for a small chance at action.
The army had zigged and zagged like the trail of a snake through the lands of tribes who had as much cause to support the Romans as his own rebels, carefully seeking out those who could be trusted, turning peoples to their cause and increasing the size of his army. For the past three days they had edged southeast along the fringe of Roman territory, staying out of sight of the larger population centres, just in case.
And now, perhaps an hour ago, they had passed that invisible, yet oh-so-crucial line that the Romans had drawn across the world to say ‘this is ours’ and located the first of the Roman watch posts. The helpful Ruteni had described the Roman border well. A series of watchtowers within sight of each other, each built on a high place along ridges or river banks as nature dictated.
For three days, Lucterius had put off the move, despite the complaints of his nobles; for he knew that crossing the border with any sizeable force would set off the signal fires that would warn the entire province of danger. And then, this morning, blessed Sucellos had sent up a chill mist from the low peaks of the region, rising like perspiration from the sodden trees that covered the uplands. And Lucterius had known that the
time had come. The army could approach the Roman border unnoticed and a small force could take out a signal station without being spotted by its neighbours. And if it all took place quickly enough, the army could be among the mountain passes and in the province unseen before anything happened.
Which would be several days yet. The Ruteni had confirmed that the Roman guards spent a week at the watchtower before they returned to their garrison, rotated with other soldiers. By the time the destruction of the signal tower was discovered, the army of Lucterius of the Cadurci would be in the streets of Narbo and the warning would be fruitless.
A dozen men. That was all he had taken. Given that the Ruteni said the garrison of one of these signal stations was an eight-man unit it should be plenty to silence the place without too much trouble, especially with surprise on their side, and he had chosen to deal with the place himself partially to display his willingness to be part of the army as well as its commander, but mostly to relieve the tension and ennui that had come with the waiting.
Focusing his attention on the task at hand, Lucterius paused as he reached the high, lichen-pasted wall of a chambered tomb, still undisturbed and with shrubbery growing up the front. Peering around the edge as he waved his men to stop, he examined his target.
The station was much like any other Roman military structure he had seen. They were so damned predictable! A stockade of sharpened stakes surrounded a small dome-shape in the land which rose above the tree line to give the occupants a clear view. It would have a gate in it, probably barred and tied. Inside was a low timber building, the roof of which was just visible above the stockade - the barracks of the garrison, of course. And a very basic timber-frame tower with a platform. Lucterius could see no sign of a beacon, but then such a signal would probably burn down the tower. He’d not thought to enquire of the Ruteni what system of signalling they used. He had assumed flame. Never mind… whatever system it was, they would not get to use it.
The Great Revolt Page 6