Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Those words cannot cut me now, my king. I’ve known that truth for a year and more.’

  The druid took a step forward, raising his blade, but the king waved a hand at him and he stopped in his tracks.

  ‘We have won, Cavarinos. Molacos, the most favoured hunter of our age stands proud before us, and Luguros, our own druid of Gergovia, the man who presented you and your brother to the gods at your first naming day, will free me. We have won here, and when we return to our native lands, the Romans will rue the day they let me live and curse the name of Alesia.’

  Cavarinos had not yet turned from the druid to face his king, and as he did so, Fronto was filled with unexpected sympathy for his friend. The fight in the carcer was a paltry thing compared to the war going on behind the Arvernian noble’s eyes. The struggle there was overwhelming him. Fronto felt his pulse quicken and he cleared his throat. ‘Cavarinos…’

  The Arvernian glanced at him, and the trouble in that glance was palpable. Then he turned back to the king in his cell. ‘I hate this, my king, truly I do. But if Molacos wins, you will drag on a futile war we cannot win and a million more men, women and children of the tribes will die. As it is, it will take generations for our lands to recover.’ He turned to the druid – Luguros. ‘When you were in Gergovia in all your glory and we children listened to your words as though they spilled from the mouths of the gods, you used to teach that sacrifices were made for the good of all the people. Well now the good of the people means peace, at any cost. Any cost. Don’t you see that?’ He turned back to the king. ‘And that sacrifice today is twofold. Your head, and my soul.’

  The druid stepped forward again, and his sword tip came up to dance near Cavarinos’ throat threateningly. ‘If we cannot persuade you, then you will have to die along with your Roman friends. We win, with or without you.’

  Fronto made to move but he was too slow, between his broken finger, broken foot and the strength-sapping blood loss from his side. Molacos was quicker, his own blade lancing out and blocking Fronto’s movement, knocking his sword away before coming to rest on his chest. One hard push on that sword and Fronto’s heart would be pierced. And yet still Molacos stood riveted to the scene before him. Fronto realised what the hideously disfigured hunter was waiting for – what the druid and the king were waiting for. Fronto was helpless now. So was the Arvernian. Cavarinos would either kill Fronto, or he himself would die on the druid’s blade.

  Cavarinos turned to him, a horrible, riven, pleading look in his eyes. Fronto could almost read the words. Kill me, the look said. Put an end to this. The Arvernian’s blade came up, quivering towards Fronto’s face, the druid’s sword tip still held threateningly close to his neck. Cavarinos took a step. Then two more. His sword tip approached Fronto even as the druid followed him, keeping his blade close.

  ‘Don’t do this, Cavarinos. You’re stronger than this.’

  The gleaming point of the Arvernian’s sword came to rest just under Fronto’s chin. The man swallowed. Fronto daren’t do the same despite the dryness in his mouth.

  He felt the nick as Cavarinos’ blade cut through the flesh and for just a moment wondered what dying would feel like. But that was all it was: just a nick. For the Arvernian noble was swinging around now with remarkable speed. In that curious slow-motion in which a heartbeat can take a year, Fronto realised what his friend was doing and, his own life hanging by a thread, fell heavily backwards to the ground.

  Cavarinos spun with the blade still at neck height. Luguros, druid of the Arverni and tutor to the great rebel king tried to cut out with his own sword to stop it, but he was far too slow, taken completely by surprise. Cavarinos’ blade bit into his neck on the right side and only stopped when it wedged between the joints in the spine. The druid’s nerves pulsed and the sword fell from his twitching fingers. His head lolling unpleasantly to one side, Luguros, who had for a year borne the cloak of Cernunnos the forest lord, turned in jerky motions to stare in horror at his killer. Cavarinos let go of the sword, which remained wedged in the neck even as he tried to talk and instead folded up to land in a heap on the floor.

  Fronto, only peripherally aware of this, hit the floor hard, the pain of the wound in his side almost overwhelming. And yet his senses were still active. As he hit, his arm was already sweeping out. The gladius may be lightly pitted with rust for lack of cleaning, but its previous owner had been diligent at the time, and the edge was as keen as any Fronto had seen. The blade cut deep into Molacos’ leg just above the ankle and snapped the bone with the blow. The Cadurci hunter screamed as his leg separated above the joint, only a narrow strip of flesh and muscle connecting them. He spun and fell, shrieking.

  As he hit the ground Fronto was already lunging across the floor, his gladius jabbing into any flesh he could find, striking foot, then ankle, then shin, thigh, groin. The blade slid home there until only the hilt protruded next to Molacos’ manhood and blood from the severed artery flooded the man’s tunic, forming a huge lake that flowed to meet that of the fallen druid nearby.

  Molacos coughed once, tried to say something, and then jerked and fell still.

  Fronto hauled himself round in the crimson pool and slowly pushed himself up to his knees. Cavarinos was standing over the fallen druid, but his eyes were on Fronto.

  ‘For a moment,’ the former legate breathed, ‘I thought you were going to do it.’

  ‘For a moment, I was,’ Cavarinos answered flatly, and there was no hint or trace of humour or wit in his tone. ‘Today I have finally cast out the last of what I was and left myself hollow.’ He turned to look at his king and Vercingetorix backed away across his cell, sickened.

  ‘Well however hollow you may feel, my intact gut and soul thank you,’ Fronto muttered, hauling himself painfully to his feet, his hand still gripping the crimson, sticky hilt of the old gladius.

  ‘It is over,’ Cavarinos said quietly.

  ‘Probably,’ Fronto corrected. ‘There might be survivors out there.’

  ‘Not that. Not the fight. My world. My world is over, Fronto. The tribes are doomed. This is the death rattle of the land you call Gaul, here in this room. The world will never be the same. I will never be the same.’

  ‘You did what you had to. What you knew to be right. There are those of us, even those who fought your people again and again, who can see a value to a future together. Gaul and Roman, building something that is better than both. Labienus suggested such a thing years ago when we were facing the Belgae, and at the time we thought he was dreaming, but in retrospect, I suspect he was ahead of his time there.’

  The room fell silent, just the groans and thuds of the wounded outside insisting on their thoughts.

  ‘I have to go.’

  Fronto blinked. ‘Now? Where?’

  ‘Anywhere. Galatia, probably. As soon as the tide will take me.’

  ‘Then you will have time for a last meal with us.’ Fronto crossed the room and clapped his hand on Cavarinos’ shoulder, wincing at the pain in his side as he did so. ‘For now, let’s go see if anyone else is alive…’

  * * * * *

  Biorix was on his knees at the outer room’s edge, clutching his side, from which leaked torrents of blood. A few paces away, the blonde woman lay on the floor, propped up with one arm. Occasionally the pair would swipe at one another with their blades, though both were clearly exhausted and half dead from wounds and blood loss.

  Other than them the room was a house of the dead, bodies strewn in a carpet, some still shuddering or moving, groaning in their final moments. Almost casually, contemptuously, Fronto stepped between the corpses and slammed his gladius home between the blonde’s shoulder blades. The woman gasped, croaked out a man’s name almost too quiet to hear, and slumped to the ground.

  ‘Fronto!’

  He turned to see Cavarinos waving him over, and stepped between the bodies, nodding respectfully at Biorix as he did so.

  His heart jumped, then thundered.

  Cavarinos was helping one
of the wounded up.

  Balbus coughed and winced.

  ‘Fortuna, you beautiful bugger,’ Fronto grinned, hurrying over.

  His father-in-law was pale as death, a lump the size of a hen’s egg on his forehead, coloured black and purple. His sword arm was crimson and soaked, but the old man was a veteran of many wars and knew precisely what to do. Before the severed artery had bled him dry, he’d whipped off his scarf and tied it so tight around the top of his arm that the blood flow had been staunched. Fronto knew that if he washed that arm it would be a pale purple-blue from lack of blood. He also knew that the arm was almost certainly lost, but the sacrifice of the limb might well have saved the old man’s life.

  ‘I think we’ll need both those doctors Glyptus knew,’ he murmured.

  ‘For you, as well,’ Cavarinos replied, pointing at Fronto’s side. ‘You’re as pale as an Arvernian winter. Anyone else alive?’

  Fronto nodded to Balbus, who clearly still felt too weak to reply, and rose, prowling around the room, pausing occasionally to administer the mercy blow to the few Gallic slaves or guards who were fighting against the pull of Hades. Procles and Agesander were still and silent. Dyrakhes was gone.

  He stopped, startled, as the decurion from Comum groaned. Crouching, he helped pull the man to his knees. He did not seem to be exhibiting any wounds from the fight, though the general coating of blood from his scourge injuries that had leaked into the wrappings made it rather hard to tell.

  ‘Jove and Minerva!’

  He turned at the shout from the doorway to see a guard – the one who’d run before the fight – standing in the square of light, a truncheon in hand and a look of disbelief on his face. Even as Fronto rose and held up conciliatory hands, the figure of Curtius Crispinus, head of the carcer guard, appeared next to him. The shapes of numerous other guards were visible behind them in the street. The centurion’s face worked repeatedly between fury and incredulity.

  Fronto coughed nervously and looked around. The room was a palace of the dead and wounded, blood coating most of the surfaces, organs and bone in ample evidence.

  ‘I can see how this might look…’

  ‘You would free the decurion?’ Crispinus demanded angrily. ‘I was told to watch out for Caesar’s men as they’re duplicitous and dangerous. It would seem Pompey has you figured.’

  Fronto realised that he still had one hand on the Comum man, who was barely conscious and half dead, as well as a bloodied sword in his other hand. Promptly, he dropped the sword and snatched his hand away from the decurion as though the touch burned.

  ‘You would even bring a sword into the sacred bounds of the city?’ Crispinus snapped. ‘Have you no shame, man? Have you no respect for the laws of men and gods?’

  Fronto sighed. Somehow he couldn’t see an argument that the blade had already been here but hidden behind a cupboard going down very well with the centurion. Slowly, painfully, he rose. ‘I would explain, but I fear your conclusions are already drawn, Curtius Crispinus. Just bear in mind that had we not been here, your carcer would now be empty of Gaulish kings. Keep the decurion. Get him well and send him home.’

  As he spoke, he rose and crossed the room, helping Cavarinos with Balbus and Biorix. Once upright, the four men, supporting each other, limped painfully towards the door, their weapons discarded in the mess.

  ‘If you think you’re leaving this room…’

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Fronto snapped. ‘The old man and I are citizens of Rome, veteran officers, and nobles of the city. We’ve been convicted of nothing. Now, move!’

  Crispinus failed to do so, but Biorix growled as the four approached and the centurion reeled back as if struck. Fronto and his friends stalked past without even glancing at the man’s face, which was cycling through a dozen emotions, uncertain where to stop.

  ‘This matter will be brought to the attention of the Consul Claudius Marcellus, mark my words. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. We’ll find out who you are,’ the man shouted as they stumbled away along the street.

  ‘Marcus Falerius Fronto,’ the former legate shouted back. ‘Sorry about the mess.’

  Chapter Twenty One

  LUCTERIUS of the Cadurci straightened himself and brushed down his stained, torn and generally ruined clothes. He did his level best to trim his straggly facial hair with the dagger from his belt and retied the braids in his hair. He was a chieftain – a man of property and authority. He might look like a vagabond…

  The ramparts were still high and despite all that had happened in recent months, there were curled plumes of smoke rising from houses. Of course, the Romans had never had cause to come here with their legions and machines of war, so the township had continued on with their lives as though the war had not happened, despite the loss of many of their folk of fighting age in that last great battle.

  Nemossos was no Gergovia. It had neither the size nor the prestige of that great place where they had almost defeated Rome. But it had two benefits. Firstly, it was home to the highest ranking surviving Arvernian noble. Secondly, because it had been untouched, there was no Roman resettlement officer here. This was a town of the Arverni with no outside influence. And the Arverni were the last people – the only people – who could still hope to raise and field an army against Rome. Caesar had exempted the Aedui and the Arverni from his rulings after Alesia, and so those two tribes alone in the land could still claim a sizeable population. And the Aedui, the duplicitous and treacherous Aedui, would never lead a revolt against their Roman masters. But the Arverni were still true to their past and if they could be persuaded to rise once more, which might be possible if they knew their king was on his way back to them, then perhaps the treacherous Aedui might join, and the tribes of Aquitania might throw in their lot.

  With a long, slow breath, he began to stride up the slope towards the gate. Two Arverni warriors stood there, looking bored. With distaste, he noted that the two men wore very Roman style belts to hold their knives, possibly even Roman-manufactured and purchased from a Roman trader.

  ‘What is your business,’ asked one of them harshly as he approached.

  Despite the state of his clothes and appearance, Lucterius still had the torc of leadership around his neck and the arm-rings of a warrior on his biceps. The sword he bore was a good quality one. He tried to exude authority.

  ‘I am Lucterius of the Cadurci.’

  ‘And I am Julius Caesar,’ the guard sneered. ‘Piss off.’

  Lucterius drew himself to his full height, pushing out his chest, his lip twitching in irritation.

  ‘I am Lucterius, chieftain of the Cadurci, as the torc should confirm. My appearance is so poor as I came here from a fight with the proconsul’s men.’

  ‘So you won then,’ grinned the guard, and his companion sniggered.

  ‘I have no time to argue with idiots who stand silent while good men of the tribes die on Roman spears. Your magistrate Epasnactos knows me from the councils of Gergovia and Bibracte. He will confirm who I am.’

  The two guards shared a look and shrugged. ‘If the chief doesn’t know you, then I’ll be taking those stolen arm-rings and torc and the rest while you get whipped through the streets. Still want an audience?’

  Lucterius clenched his teeth angrily. When he was back in command with Epasnactos at his side these two men would be buried up to their neck and left for the scavengers. ‘Take me to Epasnactos,’ he snapped.

  Nemossos was quiet and peaceful as they moved through the streets to the headman’s house. Lucterius had to stifle a sneer at every turn, noting with disgust how many Roman belts, pots, cloaks and the like were in evidence. The Arverni had once been Rome’s greatest trading partner among the tribes until Caesar came and it seemed that since discarding their arms, they had returned to their old ways. That would have to stop. The Roman merchants could be the first casualty of the new revolt – a fire arrow in the sky to begin the conflagration, as Cenabum had been in its time.

  He strengthen
ed his resolve to execute these mindless brutes as they none-too-gently guided him around the corners with the butts of their spears. Hissing his anger, he otherwise restrained himself. Now was not the time to cause trouble. Finally, the great long house came into view.

  The last time he had been here had been with Vercingetorix. Then, of course, it had been Critognatos and Cavarinos who had held the true power in this place behind their ailing uncle, and Epasnactos, their younger cousin, had been little more than an observer. Since Critognatos’ death at Alesia and Cavarinos’ subsequent disappearance, Epasnactos, who had taken part in all the rebel councils, and yet had been too young to be granted a command of men, had taken his rightful place as head of Nemossos and a chieftain of power among the Arverni.

  The world missed men like Critognatos and Cavarinos, true warriors of the tribes and leaders of men who had led the fight against Caesar. Still, Epasnactos had been in awe of his cousins. He was still young and impressionable. He could be moulded into a new rebel prince under the wing of the great king.

  There was some sort of court session being held in the house and as they entered and stood to one side, an argument over land boundaries was settled by the young man on the carved wooden dais-chair. Lucterius examined the boy as he waited, only half listening to a judgement that seemed wise enough and fair enough to prove the new magistrate had a mind at least, if not the muscles to lift a sword.

  Epasnactos looked a lot like his cousins. Like Cavarinos, anyway, lacking the bulk of Critognatos. His facial hair was still rather fuzzy and youthful, but would soon bloom into a full beard. His hair was neatly braided. He wore a torc and arm-rings, even though he could not ever have had cause to draw a sword. Lucterius would let that one pass – the boy was almost a king, after all. The young man’s face was serious and his eyes clear, even inflected with a sparkle of wit and wisdom. One day, Lucterius decided, Epasnactos might make a fine king. Now he must make a great decision.