Lucterius nodded his agreement. ‘He is weak and untrustworthy. But he has influence and power. While he languishes up among the Belgae, it is said he already begins to put together an army to lead against Rome’s ally, the Remi.’
‘There are not enough Belgae left to fight in a tavern brawl let alone a war!’
Nor are there enough of you, thought Cavarinos silently.
‘But,’ Lucterius countered, ‘Commius, as I said, has influence. There is talk that he will cross the narrow sea and bring his cousins from the northern isles to war against Rome. And his people are related to several of the tribes across the eastern river.’
And you think our lands would still be ours if an alliance of the Britannics and the Germanics pushed Rome from it? You fools.
‘Then perhaps we should approach him anyway?’ an Arvenian noble hazarded.
‘No. But perhaps we can use him. Our friends among the Carnutes and the Bituriges will bash their shields and light their fires to draw the Roman gaze, but we cannot afford to lose those lands.’ He turned to the outspoken Carnute noble. ‘As soon as the Romans are engaged in trying to quench your flames, we need to draw his attention to Commius. Between the two regions the Romans will be kept busy, and we will have time to build our army in the south.’
Cavarinos flashed a glance to the Carnute and Biturige leaders in the crowd and was not surprised to see misgivings written on their features. It sounded an awful lot like Lucterius was sacrificing them to give himself time to raise a force unnoticed. The idiot. As if he could find the manpower to fight off two or three legions, let alone ten!
‘Be reassured, my friends,’ Lucterius continued, apparently also reading the nervousness of his sacrificial animals. ‘We will not lose you. Make much noise. Rebel and shout, but when the Romans come, run to the swamps and the forests and keep your people safe. The time will come when we need them.’
They did not look altogether reassured, but the men at least nodded their acceptance and understanding. Cavarinos took another swig of his beer, shaking his head at the idiocy of it all. The man was so arrogant in his self-belief that he didn’t even hold such plotting in private, but spoke of rebellion aloud in an inn. Of course, Uxellodunon was Lucterius’ home town and he was lord here, but only a foolish lord believed his domain impregnable and secure from spies. Cavarinos would not be at all surprised if one of the shady fellows in this bar ran off to tell the Romans in hope of a reward. For a moment, he considered it himself. His personal war was over and, while he still felt the base pride of his tribe somewhere down in the pit of his stomach, he now recognised that the good of his people lay in capitulation and peace. Further struggle would only end in worse conditions and more dead. The only hope for the tribes now was to embrace their fate and make it work for them. Become more Roman than the Romans and thereby keep both their pride and their control.
But despite that, he would not run to the Romans and tell them. Someone should, but it would not be him. Not now, anyway. The time was coming to leave Uxellodunon and Cadurci territory. He would travel back east for now, to his own Arverni lands. He had not been there since the autumn, directly after Alesia. Perhaps things had improved there over the winter. Probably not, he decided.
His attention was drawn again by the word ‘prisoner’, and he looked up at the gathering of nobles.
‘If they are of no use, why do you not simply dispose of them?’
Lucterius frowned at the speaker – an unknown man with a western accent. ‘Only a fool disposes of an asset, even if it is seemingly of no current use. They have already been tortured for anything they know. There are less than thirty of them and they are starving and broken. They are no threat and require very little guarding or maintenance, so we will keep them until we have won or lost. When Esus rises once more we will ride high on a mound of Roman bodies, my friends.’
Cavarinos closed his eyes and took another pull of his drink. Did Lucterius really think he could be an ‘Esus’ raising the tribes to war once more? He could only ever be a pale imitation of the great Vercingetorix. And his army would be but an echo of that which had held the ground at Alesia.
The issue of prisoners was interesting though. They could not have been taken at Alesia, for the Romans controlled the field at the end of that fight. And while there was every possibility that they had been taken from some supply depot or roving patrol in recent months, Cavarinos doubted it. If Lucterius was trying to hide his army-building from the Romans, taking prisoners would be stupid and dangerous, and would almost certainly attract unwanted attention. And the Romans had not fought down into Cadurci lands in recent campaigns. But Gergovia was a mere two days to the northeast, and the Cadurci under Lucterius had played a large part in that victory. Cavarinos would be willing to put money on the prisoners being survivors of Gergovia.
Paying no heed to the inn’s other occupants, Lucterius approached the bar and collected a drink, leaving the others to deal with their own refreshments as he launched off into a tirade over Roman cowardice compared to the cowardice of treacherous tribesmen who should know better.
Cavarinos quickly became aware that although the nobles had paid no attention to who might be overhearing their plotting, the warriors in their retinue as they entered were beginning to look around the interior and focus on the occupants. Cavarinos was clean-shaven – a state so rare as to be noteworthy – and clearly not Cadurci, and trouble could very well be looming on the horizon. These warriors were the best their tribes still had to offer, and any one of them would be a tough proposition in a fight. Standing, he picked up his bag, nodded his thanks to the innkeeper, and made his way as nonchalantly as possible to the door. There he waited for the warriors to enter, and once the entire bunch were inside, packing the sizeable interior, he slipped past them and out into the chilly late afternoon air. Time to move on. Sooner or later someone would mention his presence to Lucterius, and it was faintly possible that this new self-professed ‘Esus’ would remember the Arverni noble who had shaved off his moustaches before the final capitulation at Alesia.
The oppidum of Uxellodunon sat rigid and unlovely in the winter cold, with rime coating every surface and the muddy furrows hardened to the consistency of iron, threatening twisted ankles and falls at every turn. As high and powerfully defensive as a smaller Alesia or Gergovia, Uxellodunon was far less advanced within, its organisation owing little to the influence of foreign design, and more resembling the settlements of the tribes centuries ago. Houses were mostly of mud-daub and timber-frame, built upon a bed of two or three stone courses. Farmland covered much of the interior and animals roved the plateau arbitrarily, mixing with the few people about on such an unforgiving day. Grass and mud. No paved streets here.
The beauty of such a basic layout was that anything unusual stood out, and Cavarinos was quite surprised he hadn’t spotted the stockade when he’d first arrived, let alone during the days he had wandered around the oppidum. Down towards the south-western gate, which stood at a sharp point in the defences on a spur of rock, a timber ring had been installed in recent months, the tips of the posts still sharp and pale.
Wandering across the rutted track, Cavarinos untied the reins of his horse from the hitching post and threw his bag across its back, then began to walk the beast down towards the southwest gate. It was not a natural way to leave the oppidum when heading east, but it would serve two purposes. Firstly, he could have a glance at the prisoners on the way, and secondly, if Lucterius realised he had overheard the conversation and decided that that was a bad thing, a false trail might be of some help.
Slowly, apparently unconcerned, he descended the slope, sticking to the rutted frozen mud and making for that gate. Before he reached it, however, he pulled his scarf up over his nose – a mode not uncommon in this sort of weather, but with the added benefit of hiding his shaven features. Veering off the path, he made for the stockade. The gate to the prison was a simple timber affair held shut with a bar and presenting no hole large
enough for a man to pass through. The two locals who were apparently set to guard it looked cold and bored, and neither even bothered to challenge him as he stepped towards the gate, motioning a greeting at them.
Slowing his horse, he bent and peered through the wooden posts of the entrance. The locking bar was clearly unnecessary, which partially accounted for the lax attitude of the pair outside. He could count twenty three Romans in the circular stockade, each filthy and most freezing and naked, a few clinging to the rags of their russet coloured tunics for warmth if not modesty. Each man within was tethered by the wrists to an iron ring driven into the heavy timber posts of the stockade. None of them would be able to move more than a few feet, and they clearly had no hope of escape. Many of them had clearly been beaten, burned and tortured, but his eyes fell specifically on a bull-shouldered bald man sitting opposite. His attire was no different from the rest, but one look at his defiant, solid posture and the strength and complete lack of fear and surrender in his eyes told Cavarinos what he was: he was a centurion. The Arverni noblemen had seen enough of them in his time. The hardest bastards in the Roman world, bar none, gladiators included. They bent their knee to no one except their commander and the gods. The man had clearly been beaten and torn to within an inch of his life, but his eyes remained clear and defiant as he locked them on the visitor at the gate.
Cavarinos sighed, heaved in a deep, cold breath, and turned to his horse.
Poor bastards.
Not his problem, though. He had enough of them without adopting more. With a last glance up at the oppidum’s centre, he turned to the gate and left Uxellodunon and Cadurci lands. Cavarinos was going home.
Chapter Two
VARUS squinted into the grey blurry morning, the world lit by a watery, inefficient sun. This oppidum of the Bituriges – the latest in a long list – had a name, but he’d long since stopped bothering to commit such names to valuable memory, given that they flew by in a steady stream of campaigning. The low, elongated hill sat between two narrow stream valleys, its northern and southern edges protected by a wide ditch below the walls, the eastern and western by the valleys themselves.
On the Kalends of Januarius, Caesar had responded to a plea from the loyal factions of the Bituriges who had been ousted by rebels of their own tribe, and he had led out Varus’ cavalry wing, collecting the Thirteenth from Avaricon and the Eleventh from their own camp, heading west. The column of ten thousand men and horses had waded into Bituriges territory with, in Varus’ private opinion, a less-than-discriminate manner, and in the ten days since the army had marched, eleven such settlements had fallen. The rebellious nature of their early targets had been somewhat uncertain as far as the cavalry commander was concerned, for few men raised any kind of resistance to their attacks.
The enemy had been suicidally optimistic, attempting revolution in lands this close to Roman winter quarters. They had so few warriors among them anymore that a Roman action against them was like pitting hungry bears against condemned criminals in Rome’s entertainment pits. The two legions had barely broken a sweat, which was something to be grateful for, given that winter still had Gaul firmly in its icy grip and that none of the men were thrilled at leaving comfortable winter quarters and marching out into the wilds before the campaigning season had even appeared on the horizon.
But here they were.
Laniocon – that was the place’s name, he seemed to remember – stood defiant and proud on its turf mound with its strong Gallic walls surrounded by ditches and narrow defiles. And yet that defiance was mere show at best, if that. For atop those ramparts a spear point gleamed every few hundred paces. Five years ago, when Gaul had still been a wild and unexplored land for the legions, this place would have blinded onlookers with the number of shining bronze weapons and helms visible above the parapet. Now, after eight years of exhaustive war, most of its defenders were old men and children, and even they would be too few to hold back a scout party, let alone two legions and a wing of cavalry. It was almost laughable that one rider in twenty in this mounted force had been drawn from these very Biturige settlements over the years, though now their allegiance was tied strongly to Caesar, who had made them wealthier men than many of their former leaders could ever hope to be.
Laniocon was ripe for the picking.
A cavalry prefect rode towards him from the southern fields, freezing dew settling on his helmet and mail and giving him a strangely ethereal sparkle in the misty grey. Beside the prefect, three of the Gallic princes who commanded the native levies waited hungrily. And well they might, for each oppidum that fell made those men richer and more influential. Even the native auxiliaries knew that Caesar’s time as proconsul was almost up and that soon he would return to Rome. When he did, Gaul would become the command of some fat politician and things would settle into status quo, so every man who sought advancement in the land was currently jostling for position and gain in order to secure a better future in what would clearly soon be a Roman province. And those who weren’t thinking like that – the few who still laboured under the impression that Gaul would return to being a tribal land – would be disappointed, disenfranchised and poor when the inevitable happened.
The Bituriges in the last oppidum they had advanced on had seen their future clearly enough, and had delivered to Caesar the half dozen men they claimed had taken control in defiance of Rome. The six rebel leaders had sneered at their Roman captors and spat at the countrymen who had sold them out, but in response Caesar had been generous, and that oppidum had suffered no ill effect other than the expense of feeding the legions for a night before they moved on west towards Laniocon.
Here, though, at least Varus was more sure of the need for castigation, for the gates had closed with a resilient thud at the sight of the Roman forces marching against them. Despite the fact that their doom hung over them like a dark cloud among the endless grey, they had seemingly decided to hold out.
‘What are your orders, sir?’ the prefect asked, reining in his steed.
Varus squinted at the hill again, shrouded in a world of soul-crushing grey.
‘There’s little for the cavalry to do here, Prefect. Have the force split down into standard alae and assign them sectors of the circuit beyond the ditches and streams. We’ll form an outer cordon and watch, just in case this land has managed to muster up a few hundred reinforcements to send them. Remember Alesia, eh?’
The prefect nodded and sighed. ‘Why do they persist, sir? Surely they can see they’re beaten?’
Varus rubbed his forehead and wiped away the fine film of dew that had settled on it. ‘The Gauls are just as proud of their history as we are, Prefect. Can you imagine in the same situation a Roman city just handing their heritage over to an invader?’
‘I suppose not, sir. It just seems so bloody futile, pardon the language.’
Varus sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Just a little longer, Prefect. The general thinks that the main stronghold of rebellion is at Argatomagon perhaps thirty miles west. Beyond that it’s mostly forests and farms until you’re in Pictone lands, so there’s no point in marching legions out there to round up a few cows and the odd toothless farmer. We’ll be back in quarters in a week.’
The prefect’s spirits rose a little at that thought as he saluted, turned and began to distribute orders among the princes with him before returning to the decurions of his own command.
The Eleventh had played the active role in the last fight while the Thirteenth had formed the defensive cordon, so this time the Eleventh under Rufio had split into cohorts and formed a ring around the oppidum, within Varus’ planned outer cavalry cordon, while the Thirteenth had formed up for the assault. Some few hundred paces south of the Gallic outer ditch, Sextius’ legion shuffled into tighter ranks as their centurions moved up and down the lines, jabbing mail-shirted chests and bellowing at occasional lax men. An opportunistic archer somewhere up on the rampart loosed a single arrow, which arced up gracefully past the defensive ditch and then
plummeted into the thick grass between there and the waiting legion. Sextius had been careful to muster his force well beyond arrow range, but Varus acknowledged the fact that, standing on that wall and watching the army form ready, he’d have been tempted at least to try, too.
As the whistles and shouts of the officers continued in preparation, a horse broke from the command unit where Caesar in his red cloak murmured into the cupped ear of Aulus Hirtius, his secretary and confidante. Varus frowned as the rider made straight for him and hauled on the reins, pulling up his sweating mount and saluting.
‘Complements of the general, sir. He would like yourself along with a few turmae of regulars to follow on the heels of the Thirteenth and make sure the oppidum remains untouched. Caesar wants no repetition of Sidia.’
Varus rolled his shoulders. ‘I heartily agree.’ Sidia had been a notable fight four days ago, and the rebels there had managed to actually do some real damage to the Eleventh’s vanguard. In response, despite Caesar’s standing orders, the soldiers had gone in like Nemesis herself, taking out their avenging fury on the inhabitants, raping and burning freely. They had left Sidia a shadow of its former self, half the town a charred and smoking ruin.
This was not a campaign of occupation or suppression. These towns were nominally loyal to Rome now, and had simply been taken control of by a few bad elements. Consequently, Rome could not afford to have the settlements destroyed. The legions were here to liberate, not to violate.
Varus waved over one of his messengers. ‘Go and find decurions Oculatius, Granius and Annius. Tell them to muster their turmae to the rear of the Thirteenth in battle order.’ The courier saluted and rode off, and Varus continued to watch for long moments until he noted the three cavalry units forming and the Thirteenth settle ready for the advance. In that eerie silence that filled the field of battle while the army awaited the order to move, the commander turned his horse and trotted off across the wet, springy turf to join his men.
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 3