‘Seize the traitor and his men!’ Caesar shouted above the din, urging the Roman forces into action. The crowd of Aedui, huge and sprawling, reacted in numerous ways, some drawing their weapons, assuming their end was nigh, others casting their swords to the turf and holding high their hands. Others appealed to Caesar in desperate shouts, while the more sensible sat quietly, aware that Caesar only wanted his betrayers. Most of this army he sought to bring back to his side.
And a few were leaving as best they could. But they raced either ahead, trying to skirt Caesar’s unit and hurtle into the valley, or back east, in the direction of Bibracte. They did not know the territory. Those who went forward would sure as shit on a wet day ride into the waiting arms of four legions. Those who went back would find themselves surrounded by two wings of Roman cavalry.
Cavarinos’ fingers twitched at the straps on the curse tablet’s container. If it worked, he could potentially end the war here and now. He would die too, of course. Probably slowly and horribly. For if he was to escape this, it would have to be now… and if he did not, who would warn Vercingetorix of what had happened? His mind made up, as practicality won over magic, he snatched his hand back from the leather pouch and wheeled his mount.
There would be a dozen heartbeats - no more - while the chaos of the panicked Aedui riders granted him the freedom he needed. After that, the Romans would begin to instil order, as was their wont, and such chance would evaporate.
Kicking his heels, grateful that they had been riding at a sensible pace this morning and his horse was still strong and energetic, Cavarinos moved among the scattering Aedui, making for the gap between Caesar’s men and those who had come in from the northeast. It was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Some Roman officer nearby shouted out for him to stop, and he almost did so as his horse reached the valley side and he looked down the steep slope, where the turf had come away in clumps to leave loose shale or dirt. His horse baulked at the sight, and so did the rider, but the sound of several Romans moving in his direction decided him. With a deep breath, he urged his mount forward and disappeared down the sharp descent as fast as he dare, knowing that one misstep would likely maim his horse and result in his capture.
It was the longest two-hundred paces of his life, and two Roman cavalry spears, cast from above, came close to ending him on the descent. But finally, blessedly, he reached the bottom and looked up at the hillside, where the Romans waited, pointing at him, unwilling to take that dangerous plunge.
And as he watched, a tiny fragment of relief flooding through his veins, he saw half a dozen more Aedui riders hurtle over the edge at a perilous and idiotic pace. Somehow he knew that one of them was young Litavicus, the others the bodyguard who had gathered at the edge of the crowd ready to protect him.
Two of the riders fumbled the plunge, one separating from his horse and crashing to the slope as his mount tumbled, screaming and snapping, down into the valley, the other staying atop the beast as the pair broke and smashed down the incline, shrieking. Halfway down a Roman spear took a third man in the back. And then the remaining three were in the valley, racing towards Cavarinos. Litavicus did not look chastened or panicked. He did not appear disheartened or angry. The man wore an exhilarated grin, as though he were enjoying himself immensely.
For a brief moment, Cavarinos considered drawing his blade and dispatching the man here and now.
‘I place my safety in the hands of the local,’ smiled Litavicus.
‘Shut up,’ Cavarinos snapped and kicked his horse into life, making for the northern valley and the side ravine that would carry them back to the Elaver River, skirting any likely route of the legions’ advance. So… no Aedui support for now. It was to be hoped more than ever that Vercingetorix knew what he was doing and that Gergovia could hold.
* * * * *
Fronto struggled into his cuirass and hurriedly threw his baldric over his shoulder, racing out of the tent and into the morning sunshine. The camp seemed strange with so few men. Of the six legions they had brought to Gergovia, Caesar had taken four to be certain of turning the Aedui once more. Two had remained here, along with sundry auxilia. Ten thousand men at most laying siege to perhaps eighty thousand. And now, with the foothold camp established on the hill below the oppidum, none of the officers were willing to give up that hard-won position, so the remaining forces had split. The ‘white rocks’ camp held the Eighth legion, while the main camp held the Tenth. A fortress for eight legions, manned by one. The sheer logistics were staggering. It was so far between the ramparts. And the walls themselves were such an extensive circuit that when fully manned there were virtually no men left in the camp itself. No reinforcements or men on rest.
‘What is it?’ he demanded of the tribune - a man whose name he couldn’t even remember. Gods, how he already missed Fabius and Furius.
‘Another assault, sir.’
The irritating, testing attacks had continued in Caesar’s absence, with nine such forays over the previous day, each of which had thinned out the men on the walls slightly, not noticeably to the untrained eye, but Fronto had the numbers on the tablets on his desk. He knew the cost better than anyone, barring the medicus, hard at work in the hospital tent.
‘Rally the men to the nearest rampart and have the ammunition and equipment brought to them by the walking wounded. Which way is this force weighted?’ The forays had tended to focus more on either cavalry elements or the archers, constantly changing and leaving the Roman defenders uncertain as to what to expect next.
‘I think you need to see this, sir.’
Fronto, perturbed by his junior officer’s tone and words alike, hurried across the bare, empty camp until he passed from the area of officers’ and supply tents and reached the main decumanus - the road crossing the camp from east to west - and was afforded a view of the enemy fortress between the lines of empty legionary tents.
‘Shit.’
‘My sentiments precisely, sir. What are your orders?’
Fronto looked up at the oppidum of Gergovia. Even over a mile away it was a daunting and impressive sight. All the more so when it towered above a veritable flood of men streaming down the hillside. From this distance it resembled a swarm of ants on a sunken log.
‘Grab a shield, pray to your gods and make sure you’ve had a shit before they get here, ‘cause you’ll sure as hell have one when they do!’
The tribune’s steady look faltered for a moment.
‘How many do you think there are, sir?’
‘All of them. Get to the rampart. Sound the alert, in case anyone’s asleep or in the latrines.’
As the tribune ran off, Fronto ripped his beautiful blade from its scabbard and stooped to pick up a legionary’s shield where he had helpfully left it standing in the doorway of his tent. Without pause, he ran on for the western rampart. He should have expected this, really. A day of probing and testing, and then the Arverni king would make a full play to remove them, taking advantage of the absence of Caesar and the other legions.
By the time he was clambering up onto the earth bank and taking his place close to both Carbo and Atenos on the parapet, the enemy were closing, the swarm having reached the ground, moving like a plague across the fields, a flood of dark colours amid the gold and green of the rich lands.
‘Steady lads. There’s a lot of them, but they’ve run a mile or more, they’re poorly-equipped and undisciplined, and we have the ramparts.’
Affirmative noises spread along the parapet and Fronto noted with pride a number of the wounded with one good arm or dragging a bad leg making their way to the walls, grappling with their kit. Another thought occurred to him. The gates were weak points - the only points on the perimeter not protected by the double ditch. Things would be easier if they did not have to concentrate on four such positions.
‘Carbo? Get some men to the north and south gates and have them blocked up tight. Then double the men at the east and west ones. But before you do, get someone on a horse an
d riding for Caesar to tell him what’s happening. I don’t know where they’ll be, but if a rider follows the Bibracte route from here, he’ll find the general somewhere in the first fifteen miles, I reckon. Tell him to get his men back here sharpish if he still wants a camp to sleep in.’
Carbo nodded and began relaying orders as Fronto watched the mass of Arverni and their allies racing for the walls. They were closing rapidly, the cavalry out front, peeling off to move around the camp. That rider would have to get going post-haste, else he would be trapped in the camp. He would have to trust to the ever-competent Carbo for that. Fronto had his own troubles to attend to.
‘Here we go,’ he shouted, watching the mass of men racing towards the ditches. Here and there an archer would pause to release an arrow, though they were too distant yet to present a danger.
And then something unexpected happened. The running warriors, charging at walls, heedless of the ditches, lilia pits and artillery aimed at them, pulled up suddenly in a line and dropped to a knee behind their shields in a very Roman-looking formation as a wave of archers, bows already nocked and half-drawn, arrived behind them and lifted and loosed their missiles in a swift, very haphazard moment before dropping back, the warriors rising once more and running again.
Fronto ducked the arrows that sheeted across the open ground at the ramparts. The manoeuvre had been too hurried and careless to aim well, but the man behind this attack had sacrificed accuracy for speed and volume, as well as surprise - and he’d made the right choice. Of the thousand or so arrows loosed, less than a hundred were on target, but that was enough. Men all along the parapet shrieked and vanished backwards or grunted at a glancing blow, an impaled foot or a punctured shield pinned to their arm. The damage was intense.
Of course the legionaries were prepared now, and subsequent missile attacks would have much less effect, but the damage was already done. As always, while Fronto watched the huge force of Gauls crossing the ditches, falling foul of the lilia with broken, impaled and shredded legs, thrown back by the punch of scorpion bolts and occasional arrows and slingshots, he cast up a brief but heartfelt prayer to Fortuna that his young wife and two sons would see him again. That Lucilia would not one day have cause to travel to Gergovia to gaze down at a rough battlefield memorial marker… a sword or personal effect hanging on a simple stake marked with his name.
Next to him, Atenos gave the order to release pila, and a thousand javelins rose slightly and fell into the mass of bodies struggling across the ditches. The effect was slaughter, and yet the kills made barely a dent on the force attacking the camp.
This is going to be evil to hold, Fronto thought to himself, willing Caesar to hurry. We can do it, but not for too long.
The first man reached the rampart, scrambling up the earth bank and trying to bring a spear up to jab at Fronto, but the legate simply batted the shaft aside and drove down with his blade, slamming it into the man’s neck and wrenching it back out to the side in a welter of blood.
Next to him, Fronto saw Atenos, shieldless, rip a spear from his assailant’s hand and turn it back on him, jabbing him in the face while bellowing something incomprehensible in his native Gallic tongue. Funny how he was standing beside the freest of Gauls fighting off other Gauls who believed that driving out Rome made them free.
Sunset, he reckoned. We can hold ‘til sunset. After that…
* * * * *
Cavarinos regarded the oppidum, a little over a mile to the south, its bulk looming oppressively in the half-light. The sun had vanished below the horizon, but still played on the very crest of Gergovia, illuminating roofs and towers. His eyes roved east and played across the scene nearby. No Roman or Gaul was paying the slightest attention to him or the three Aedui who rode with him, for a struggle was underway for a large Roman camp that lay halfway between the mountain and the river. The Romans were in trouble, but they were clearly holding their own, despite the horribly uneven numbers on the opposing sides.
All that would change, of course. The four fleeing riders had seen Caesar’s force several times over the last few hours. They must have received urgent word of trouble to be so quick on their return, for they were almost keeping pace with the desperate riders. Of course, the Romans could just march in a straight line, while Cavarinos, despite having fled with haste, had been forced to widely circle the Roman legions before heading back south to the oppidum.
Those legions themselves were perhaps three hours away still, but Caesar was only half an hour distant, travelling ahead with his enormous cavalry contingent, now bolstered by the Aedui who had so recently been riding to aid Vercingetorix… curse Litavicus and his involved trickery!
The attack on the large camp was doomed as soon as Caesar put in an appearance, but it would at least keep the Romans busy and tired in the meantime. Cavarinos sighed and rode wearily up the slope toward the oppidum gate, where he was sure someone would be able to direct him to the quarters of the Arvernian king.
Time to sort a few things out, including the danger of putting their trust in this young headstrong Aeduan, who was perhaps too clever for his own good. And time to decide what to do with this tablet that was more of a curse to carry than anything else.
* * * * *
Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus leaned on the windowsill of the house in which he, Brutus and Aristius had spent the past two nights. The oppidum of Rodonna was the southernmost of Aedui strongholds, on the very edge of Arverni territory. It had been four days since Priscus had finally located Brutus and the Narbonensis garrison, and he had immediately ordered the men directly to Gergovia, knowing that they were strong enough to move through the land unopposed under the command of their veteran centurions. The three officers, however, had decided to ride out ahead for Caesar’s army and inform them of the relief force’s approach. While two legions and a garrison could safely consider crossing Arverni lands, three men on horseback were less sure, and so they had ridden north for the security of Aedui territory, where they could turn west and ride for Gergovia among their allies.
A stop overnight at Rodonna had been a welcome proposition after so long travelling in the open, and the oppidum, which nestled on a low hill in a bend in the Liger river that protected it on three sides, was comfortable, even for a Roman. A site of Gallo-Roman trade for years, it had most of the amenities they required, and even access to good wine. The occupants had a good command of Latin, and there were rarely less than twenty Romans in the place, loading ships on the river or dealing with trade convoys.
It had been perfect.
Apart from the reception they had received.
The merchants had sheltered in Rodonna from the violence that had erupted all across Aedui lands. Word was that the leaders of Bibracte had thrown off their connection with Rome and sided with the rebels. A huge cavalry force meant for Caesar had changed sides and made for Gergovia. The entire tribe’s territory was in a state of upheaval that resembled the brutal civil war Priscus remembered so well a couple of decades earlier. The merchants said that some oppida and cities and towns continued to hold to their oath with Rome - mainly the ones grown fat from Roman trade. Others had gone over to the rebels and had massacred any Roman they could find, plundering the goods of civilian merchants and soldiers alike. And the situation changed almost hourly, with some towns flipping back and forth in their allegiance with eye-blurring rapidity.
Plainly, it was not safe to set foot out in the countryside. It seemed, in fact, that Aedui land had suddenly become considerably more dangerous than Arverni territory, most of which was now burned and depopulated anyway.
Consequently, the three officers had decided to stay the one night and then head back south and rejoin the forces marching for Gergovia.
But then trouble had come to Rodonna.
Realistically, of course, they had to be grateful that the leaders of this oppidum had remained staunchly in favour of Rome, offering succour to the desperate local Roman merchants. But with the morning sun had come the enemy, tr
apping the officers here.
The Aedui rebels - a force of perhaps five hundred horse and foot under a big thug who had rather pretentiously named himself Brennus - had settled outside the oppidum’s walls. Before anyone could arrange an evacuation, Aedui archers had moved along the opposite banks with jars of pitch and fire arrows and had set the ships on the river alight, removing all hope for the trapped Romans.
‘Do we go?’
‘Someone has to parlay,’ Brutus shrugged.
‘It might end better if that someone was an Aedui noble, though,’ Priscus replied. ‘One of the leaders of Rodonna, say?’
‘Apparently the demand was aimed at the Romans here, though,’ Aristius sighed.
‘It should be you, then’ Priscus replied casually.
Aristius blinked in surprise. ‘Me? I’m the lowest ranking officer here. I’m a foot soldier compared to you two, sirs.’
‘You’re able and clever. But most importantly here, you’re an unknown. The men outside are Aedui. They may well have heard of me. Hell, I’ve been drunk in taverns in their capital more than once. And Brutus is a name known from Spain to Judea. If Brutus or I reveal ourselves we might well become sought-after bargaining chips. Or at least our heads might. They might burn the whole town just to get to us. You, on the other hand, are unknown enough that you might be able to reason with them.’
Aristius sighed. ‘But we will not submit to them, I presume?’
‘Shit, no. I know what’ll happen if we do.’
‘Come on, then,’ the young tribune straightened, making for the door and jamming his helmet on his head. The three men stepped out of the comfortable lodgings, donated to them by an Aeduan merchant of means, and onto the street that curved southeast to the rampart which sealed off the promontory, surrounded by a deep trench. The gates were firmly closed and the parapet lined by warriors from the oppidum, torches burning at intervals, as well as buckets of water, in the event that those rebel fire arrows be turned from the ships upon the township itself.
The Great Revolt Page 30