The Great Revolt

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘You are serious about carrying on the war?’

  Lucterius grunted an affirmative with a nod.

  ‘You realise that the Arverni king will not be with us?’

  ‘Perhaps. The Romans will not kill him, though - he is too valuable as a prize. But even if he is crucified, we can still fight on. The Romans are tired and weak. If we can rally the tribes over winter, we will be able to rise again next year, this time with purpose and fury, not caution and subtlety.’

  ‘The druids might not support us after Vercingetorix’s failure.’

  ‘Then we will do it without them. This is not over.’ He glanced sidelong at the carved-meat face of his Cadurci friend, who radiated silent malice. ‘No. This is not over by a long way.’

  * * * * *

  Cavarinos had heaved his way through the western gate of the oppidum in the cold dark of the night and found the first empty house - there were so many now - to collapse in. His night had been fitful and unpleasant, filled with dreams of admonishment and loss, and for some reason punctuated with flashes of Fortuna laughing at him. Then, before the first rays of dawn, he had been struck with a vivid nightmare of battle in which a thousand dark-skinned warriors beat him to death in a brown dusty valley while a thousand glittering Romans looked on and laughed. The killing blow had never landed, though, for Cavarinos had lurched awake, drenched with cold sweat to the sound of a carnyx honking.

  He rubbed his eyes and rolled out of bed. As his foot hit the ground and sent a shock up his leg, he remembered the calf wound and moved more carefully. At least his head had stopped hurting and he felt less groggy, the fuzziness that remained merely the product of his bad night.

  His tunic and trousers clung to him with cold salty sweat and his hair felt saturated. He rose, trying to pick out what the carnyx call was saying. It was a general call to attendance. Not a battle call, at least. Assuming that whatever it summoned to was no urgent matter, he staggered over to the wall, where the house’s owner had hung a bronze mirror of Roman manufacture - an irony that made him smile despite himself. Peering at his face, he felt a little relieved. There was some mottled bruising where Fronto’s man had hit him, but otherwise he appeared to be whole. Nothing unfixable, anyway, and though the wrapping on his leg was soaked through with blood, as was the bottom of the bed, he had not bled out and he could feel that the wound had clotted and crusted, sticking to the binding.

  He looked quizzically at the face before him. In the past few weeks and months he had left his chin hair to grown out again, his beard now as luxuriant and full as it had ever been.

  He looked like Critognatos.

  With a cathartic breath, he reached for the knife at his belt and, testing the edge, began to methodically shave his chin, then on a whim continued across his cheeks and down his neck until the face that stared back out of the rippled bronze looked more Roman than Gaul. He stared, feeling certain that somehow what he was looking at was the future. It looked and felt surprisingly natural.

  The horn blew again, slightly more insistent, and Cavarinos nodded to the stranger in the mirror and turned, limping from the room. Next to the door, the helpful past occupant had left a good quality spear leaning against the wall, and the Arvernian noble grasped it and used it as a crutch to hobble from the house.

  The morning was bright and glorious, the sky an unbroken azure and the buzzing of bees and chittering of birds filling the air. It was still very early, barely past dawn from the angle of the light on the buildings of Alesia, and he listened again. The call was coming from the fanum - the sacred space given over to the shrine of Taranis at the highest point of the oppidum. As speedily as he could reasonably manage, given the difficulty of his leg, Cavarinos lurched through the cobbled streets towards the holy site. He was not alone. Numerous stragglers, their faces sewn with defeat and loss, bumbled through the settlement, converging on the call.

  The fanum was a wide public square - one of the largest such spaces Cavarinos had ever seen, after the massive example at Bibracte - with three shrines to Toutatis, Taranis and Ogmios. The people of the rebel army filled it from wall to wall, occupying every space, and more folk had climbed up to the sloping portico roof that surrounded it, taking precarious seats where they could to listen to proceedings. Others were gathered at the three entrances to the Fanum, listening through the gaps from outside.

  Cavarinos silently pushed past the peripheral figures, leaning on his spear. Despite the density of the crowd his condition, expression, clear rank, and the serpent arm-ring that identified him as Arverni all served to grant him access, people pushing respectfully back to grant him difficult passage.

  Finally, he came to a halt next to a large stone block for the tethering of horses, where two young warriors barely old enough to shave shuffled out of the way to allow this wounded noble a seat. Cavarinos nodded his thanks and sank to the stone with a sigh.

  Vercingetorix stood before the shrines on a low wooden platform, emitting an aura of authority even now. He was tall and proud, still dressed for battle and spattered with blood as a constant reminder of what he was above all else: a warrior. A strange silence filled the square and Cavarinos sat in it for another quarter of an hour until the public were no longer arriving and shuffling into place. During that time, Vercingetorix’s gaze had passed across him more than twice with no sign of recognition. Of course, his face was discoloured from the bruise and his beard had gone, so among the crowd he would hardly be recognisable. Perhaps that was a good thing?

  Finally the king of the Arverni, leader of the war against Caesar, chosen of druids and beloved of the tribes, cleared his throat.

  ‘You have a decision to make this morning, my friends.’

  The silence rushed in as he paused, filling the square with curiosity and tension.

  ‘I undertook this war, as any who know me will confirm, not for my own glory or for that of my tribe, and not for territory or gold or hostages. I undertook this war, at the behest of the shepherds of the people’ - a brief nod in the direction of a figure in an off-white robe to one side. ‘I undertook this war for the good of all the tribes. For the freedom of all the people from the Roman yoke.’

  Again, the silence flooded the square. Even the bees and the birds seemed to have halted their noise to grant audience to the first - and very likely the last - king of a unified Gaul.

  ‘But fortune is fickle.’

  Cavarinos’ hand went to the bronze figurine at his neck and he gripped it so tight that his knuckles whitened.

  ‘Fortune,’ the king continued, ‘was not with us yesterday. We were within a hair’s breadth of defeating Caesar, and yet the attack collapsed.’

  Cavarinos frowned. The king sounded as though he were about to admit defeat. Cavarinos knew they were beaten, of course, and that there was no fight left in the tribes, and the king had said as much before that disastrous battle, but he had never truly believed that Vercingetorix would stop just because there did not seem to be a way out. As long as the reserves on the hill kept the Romans bottled up in their camps, the king that Cavarinos knew would not admit defeat. One of the younger warriors in the square seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion, for he braved the crowd.

  ‘Next time fortune will favour us, and the gods will watch over us’ the young man shouted into the abyss of silence.

  But Vercingetorix was shaking his head.

  ‘While you, my brave and faithful, lay abed recovering from your wounds and exertions, preparing to take the fight to the Romans once again despite our weakness and hunger, I stood on the western gate this morning and watched the relief force depart.’

  A collective, disbelieving groan rippled through the fanum, and an air of hopelessness and despair flooded in, melding with the silence. A lone crow cawed somewhere nearby - one of the few who was not busy down at the battlefield, feasting. The Arvernian king nodded.

  ‘It is true. Our brothers have abandoned the war. Even after our defeat, last night we outnumbered the
Romans by almost two men to one. This morning, we are but a third of their number, and we starve to death with every passing hour.’

  ‘There must be a way…’ an older warrior with a bandaged arm shouted out.

  ‘No.’ The king shook his head. ‘This battle is lost and with the withdrawal of the reserves, so is the war. We have reached the end, my friends. All that remains now is to decide how we greet our fate.’

  The groan rippled around the square again, and Vercingetorix straightened.

  ‘Even though Caesar and his wicked politicians are men of cruelty and power, there are honourable souls among the Romans. Perhaps there are ways in which we can reduce the plight of our people.’ The king gestured to the space beside him. ‘My commanders are gone. The chiefs and kings of your tribes. All dead on that field below us. I alone remain as a figure of the will that has brought us to this precipice. I alone stand to atone for our actions that have ruined you, our people.’

  This time the groan was disbelieving and refuting. They would not hear such words, clearly.

  ‘It is true. I alone remain. And I submit to you, the people of the tribes. There is no future to be made in a desperate charge to oblivion on their sharpened stakes and spears. You must bend your knee to Rome and speak their oaths and hope that the honourable men among the serried Roman ranks accept your obeisance in faith.’

  Again a negative murmur, but again, Vercingetorix shook his head.

  ‘I offer myself to Rome in penance for what has happened. I will offer myself to Caesar, to be bound a slave or butchered as a beast at his whim. For in my sacrifice, I may be able to fulfil the general’s lust for blood and divert his fury from you.’

  The groan rose once more, but the king was adamant.

  ‘I have failed you as a leader. I will not fail you as a sacrifice.’

  Cavarinos shook his own head now and realised that he had stood unexpectedly.

  ‘You are not the only chieftain who failed the people, my king.’

  Vercingetorix focused on Cavarinos with a frown, and the Arvernian noble saw the dawn of recognition on the king’s face.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The nobleman’s brow furrowed. ‘I am your servant - Cavarinos of the Arverni, chieftain of Nemossos.’

  But Vercingetorix was shaking his head, a sharp look directed at him, which dropped to the leather pouch at his belt for a fraction of a moment. ‘I saw Cavarinos of Nemossos fall at the walls. Whoever you are, you’re mistaken and addled.’

  Cavarinos opened his mouth to argue, but the look in the king’s eyes was enough to silence him. Vercingetorix was making more than one sacrifice today. The king was unaware that the curse of Ogmios had been used - perhaps he was saving Cavarinos to preserve the curse, and with it a hope for a Gallic future. A vain hope, for the tablet wrapped snugly in the pouch lay in two useless pieces.

  ‘We must send a deputation to the Romans,’ the king went on, addressing the crowd, ‘baring the shoulder in a sign of peace. Our deputation will offer my life or death as they see fit and demand of Caesar his terms.’ The king fixed Cavarinos with a stare. ‘You, who so wishes to sacrifice yourself alongside me. Will you lead the ambassadors?’

  Cavarinos could feel the many layers of depth in the request. It was a task the king would only ask of a man he trusted. It was a way of perhaps securing Cavarinos’ path to freedom as an ambassador or maybe hostage. Was it because the king already knew that Cavarinos had spoken to sympathetic Romans? Or did he expect Cavarinos to have a chance to use his spent curse on the general. He felt sick.

  ‘If it is your wish, my king,’ Cavarinos sighed unhappily.

  He had been there at the beginning, and now it appeared he would be there at the end.

  * * * * *

  Fronto stood with the other officers as Caesar leaned over the table in the glorious sunlight before his tent. The general was business-like as usual, and despite the common belief that the battle was truly over, the legions had been moved into garrison positions once more, repairing and replacing damaged and broken defences. But the sight this morning of the vast relief army on the hill beyond the plain departing had sent a collective sigh of relief up all across the army.

  ‘How long do we have?’

  The messenger that had interrupted the briefing swallowed nervously. ‘They are just crossing the Osana, general. They will be here in perhaps a quarter of an hour. They are all on horseback.’

  The general nodded. ‘When they reach the gates have them wait there if I have not arrived.’

  He turned back to the staff as the messenger ran off again.

  ‘Tell me of the Gallic reserves,’ he asked, gesturing to Varus. The cavalry commander smiled wearily. ‘My scouts say the army split apart into more than a dozen tribes on the far side of the hill and went their separate ways, scattering across the land.’

  ‘Then we stand little chance of rounding them up,’ Caninius noted.

  Caesar brushed the idea aside. ‘They are of little consequence now. Within days they will be nondescript farmers and craftsmen in their own villages. The heart and soul of this rebellion is trapped in Alesia. So long as the reserve have scattered I am content to let them be. Had they remained unified, we might have been forced to deal with them. But…’

  He turned to Antonius.

  ‘What of noble captives?’

  ‘Twenty three tribal leaders have been identified among the prisoners, including the Arverni king’s cousin, and numerous more among the dead. We’ve taken a total of seventy-four enemy standards, which has to be some kind of record. Better make a big noise about that when you inform the senate of what happened.’

  Caesar nodded absently.

  ‘Make sure the enemy dead are howed up the same as ours and that their nobles are given appropriate honours in the same manner as our deceased officers. We have obliterated Gaul, but let us not anger their Gods any further while we still walk their soil.’ He breathed in deep lungfuls of fresh air. ‘It has been a costly siege, gentlemen. Let us pray to all our patron deities that it is the last such cost we shall be called upon to pay in Gaul.’

  ‘We’ll find that out soon enough,’ Antonius noted quietly, and Caesar seemed to shake off the cloak of weariness that had covered him this morning.

  ‘Absolutely. Let us meet the wretched crows from Alesia and see what they have to say.’

  The general took a meticulous moment to tidy away his tablets and lists on the table, leaving them guarded by half a dozen of Ingenuus’ praetorians, and then strode away down the slope of the camp atop the Gods’ Gate hill, the officers at his heel and another dozen Praetorians all around.

  The north gate of Caesar’s camp gave an impressive and unrestricted view of the oppidum across the Osana valley. Today, for the first time since the Roman ramparts had gone up, not a single column of smoke arose from the roofs of Alesia. A party of perhaps a dozen men rode towards the north gate. They didn’t look particularly powerful or wealthy to Fronto. They looked like peasants.

  ‘I am here to speak to Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Gaul and Illyricum, on behalf of Vercingetorix, king of the Arverni.’

  Fronto frowned at the familiar tone and it took a moment for him to recognise Cavarinos. The man was not adorned with the usual noble accoutrements - just a serpent arm-ring. And he’d shaved off his beard. Much better. Made him look like the civilized man Fronto knew him to be.

  Caesar stepped to the parapet above the gate and looked down at the band of mounted peasants below. ‘Are things so bad in the camp of my enemy that he must send the lowest of his men to treat with me?’

  Fronto saw Cavarinos struggle for a moment, clenching his teeth. The Arvernian noble’s eyes met Fronto’s almost challengingly, and then he straightened. ‘The lion’s share of our noble blood lies on the plains and at Mons Rea with Roman spears in its chest. The king would hear your terms for his surrender. He hopes that the Romans, who consider themselves noble, and to be the pinnacle of civilization, wil
l agree to terms that will allow for mercy and leniency among the common people of Gaul, who wish for nothing more than to return to their farms and repair the damage this year has done to their livelihoods. Vercingetorix entreats you to exact your vengeance upon he alone and to grant clemency to the former army of the Gaulish tribes.’

  Fronto noted the looks of confusion on the other rebels’ faces at the phrases Gaul and Gaulish. None of them thought in such terms. It was a mark of how far ahead Cavarinos’ mind was working. The man was couching the terms in language that would suit the Romans. He turned to Caesar.

  ‘General, if this is to be the last battle for Gaul, it might be time to start building bridges rather than burning them down.’ The general gave him a sharp look, but he shrugged. ‘Next year, if the land is to become a settled province, then we need the economy to move back onto track. What happens here will carry a message to the whole of Gaul, whatever you decide. It could be a message of oppression and control, or it could be one of encouragement and collaboration.’

  Still the general stared at Fronto, and the spell was only broken by Antonius, who leaned close to the general and murmured something quietly that Fronto couldn’t catch but soon had the general giving a curt nod. Caesar leaned forth over the parapet once more.

  ‘Here are my terms. Any leaders of the tribes that revolted who are not already in our custody will personally deliver Vercingetorix to this camp at noon. They will all take a new oath of allegiance to Rome, though the enemy commander will not be required to do so and will remain my prisoner indefinitely. We have in captivity a number of your warriors, both here, back in Agedincum and Noviodunum, and already at Massilia. I cannot recall the precise number, though it is a high one. Those men were taken in battle and will return to Rome as slaves. I will require that number of captives to be supplemented from the population of the oppidum such that every man in my army who survives this siege will take home the profit of one slave sale. That is, to be clear, each Roman - and each Gallic auxiliary who has served me loyally - will take one slave apiece. Precise numbers will be confirmed by my officers before noon and a messenger sent to you with the details.’