The Great Revolt

by S. J. A. Turney

  There was no sign of the usual ditches outside the stockade, the rocky hillside rendering such defences both unnecessary and impossible. He could vaguely hear the sounds of a horse within, which would likely serve to ride for the city should need arise - that would need to be taken out straight away, just in case. And atop the tower, leaning on his curved body shield, lounged a watchman. His gaze seemed fixed on the horizon far from the tower, unaware of the true proximity of danger.

  Lucterius turned and made motions to his men. Two of them were Ruteni archers - the best he had, according to their chief, and at his signal, they took up position at the far side of the stone tomb. Lucterius and his remaining ten crouched low to best use the scrub for cover and began to work their way up to the walls, the leader praying to his gods that the watchman remained oblivious.

  In a score of heartbeats he was closing on the stockade. All seemed to be peace. Not a single voice echoed from within, just the snorting and huffing of the horse. It was so quiet that when they stopped and held their breath that he could hear the sound of the man atop the platform scratching himself. Another set of hand signals, and his favoured warrior nodded, drawing a wicked-sharp sickle from his belt. With three deep, steadying breaths, Lucterius turned and gave a wave back at the chambered tomb.

  An arrow sped from the shadows below the tomb and thudded into the Roman watchman’s face. It had flown true and deadly, killing the man and silencing him instantly in the very act. The only noise that arose from the attack was the thump of the body hitting the wooden platform and the faint clunk of the shield falling on top of it.

  As soon as Lucterius saw the body vanish, he started to run around the stockade, his warriors with him. The other seven men of the garrison would hear the attack now and rush to defend the gate while sending another man or two up the ladder. But the two archers by the dolmen had proved their skill, and Lucterius didn’t fancy the chances of a Roman reaching the tower platform alive, let alone managing to get off a warning.

  And they were at the gate suddenly, rounding the stockade in moments. Lucterius was thrilled through with joy and surprise in equal quantities to discover the gate wide open and inviting. His gaze took in the surrounding area and spotted the Roman, who had been standing near the trees a few paces away, urinating happily. Now he was turning, his privates still bared, desperately trying to draw the blade at his belt, his shield absent, presumably still inside.

  Lucterius gestured to more of his men and two warriors peeled off from the group, mobbing the unfortunate Roman and dispatching him with twin thrusts to neck and groin before the tip of his sword had even left his scabbard. The man’s scream was cut off instantly as the steel cut through windpipe and voice box before grating on spine.

  Ignoring the man’s demise, Lucterius hurtled through the inviting gate, his remaining eight men at his heel. Cunorix, his best warrior and chosen companion, was already making for the horse, sickle out to the side ready for the blow. The Cadurci leader loved horses, and the necessary death of the Roman beast weighed upon him, so he turned from the scene and made for the barracks, the only evidence of the savage act the sudden curtailing of the snorting and a brief thud and rumble as the animal thrashed.

  And then, a moment later, Lucterius was in through the barrack door, one man at his heel while the others secured the perimeter and checked for more men outside the stockade.

  His surprise only deepened as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior.

  Eight beds in the form of four twin bunks filled the far end, all of which were bare and empty. The near end was some kind of communal kitchen, mess hall, living space and storeroom.

  And one man - the only occupant - had managed to raise his shield and draw his sword. His head was bare, his helmet still hanging from his bedpost by the chin ties. The man’s expression was one of savage defiance and haughtiness - typical of the smug Romans.

  Lucterius was on him in moments. His long sword, heavy and strong, came over in a wide sweep. To his credit, the Roman raised his shield well, but there was little he could do against the unstoppable weight of the blade. The Gallic sword slammed down into the shield, shredding the fine bronze edging into twisted strips and smashing through the layered wood and leather before sticking at the bulbous boss.

  The shield was useless, though the Roman was quicker and smarter than Lucterius had given him credit for, using his grip on the heavy encumbrance to help him stab forward with his own sword. The Cadurci chief would forever thank his gods and count himself a lucky man that his own momentum carried him automatically aside, and the Roman blade scored along the side of his ribcage, tearing links from his mail shirt but leaving him otherwise unscathed.

  With a roar of anger, the Roman discarded his useless shield, and Lucterius felt his trapped sword ripped from his hand by the action. For a moment, he realised that he was actually in real danger. The Roman was quick and decisive, and that wicked gladius was already back and coming in for another blow.

  As the chief tried urgently to recoil from the attack, the Roman’s face suddenly exploded in a welter of blood, teeth and brains. Lucterius stared wide-eyed as the mangled soldier toppled backwards in a cloud of his own brain matter, falling awkwardly as the tip of the Roman spear that had passed through his head slammed into the ground.

  The chieftain continued to stare, heaving in breaths, and finally turned to see one of his men in the doorway, his arm still raised from the throw.

  As he began to recover with an exhale, Lucterius nodded his thanks.

  ‘What of the compound?’

  ‘Nothing. One horse. Nothing else.’

  Lucterius frowned, shaking his head. ‘Three men? It cannot be.’ His gaze took in the barracks, and what he saw confirmed the truth of it. Eight beds - five unslept in and bare, three with rucked blankets. Only three marching poles in the corner. Just three men. All dead with no signal sent.

  ‘That’s it, then. The crossing is ours. And the mist will still fill the land for an hour or more. Send word to the army to begin moving into the valley. No more dallying now. We move straight on Narbo, and we’ll be at its gates before you can blink.’

  The men cheered as they went over the bodies and kit of the Romans, searching for valuables or salvageable equipment. As Cunorix, his second, approached, drenched in the blood of the horse, Lucterius pursed his lips, a haunted look to his eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Lucterius turned his worried look on his companion. ‘It was so easy. And now the way is clear and Narbo lies waiting for us. But where were the others, Cunorix? Three men, not eight. And the other five have been here recently, for their pots sit in the corner unwashed. I wish we had taken one alive to interrogate. I do not like such surprises.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a gift from the gods?’

  Lucterius nodded, though with little enthusiasm. ‘I hope you’re right, Cunorix, but I am starting to have a bad feeling about this.’

  * * * * *

  Lucius Aufridius Aprilis swallowed nervously. He held the military rank of tribune, though it had been a good four years since he had last donned the armour and these past few days of squeezing his well-fed bulk back into it had been extremely uncomfortable. He’d enjoyed life in the province, commanding the extremely dispersed garrison - which was a task that almost ran itself - while living the good life in the well-appointed city of Narbo and keeping an eye on a number of private investments in shipping and mercantile endeavours and other, less legal sources of extra revenue.

  But three days ago, his world had turned upside down as a force of legionaries some seven or eight thousand strong, supported by a sizeable cavalry unit, had arrived, a small knot of noblemen and officers carrying a banner that had made Aprilis’ blood run cold… Gaius Julius Caesar!

  By the time the general had dismounted at the forum’s elegant basilica, Aprilis had managed to find his clean toga, brush his hair, dress well, perfume and drag together an honour guard of six of the better turne
d out men. The general had hardly looked at him as he had stammered out a welcome and announced a huge banquet that he would have prepared in the Proconsul’s honour. He had been rattling off how much of an honour it all was when another of the officers, a hard-looking man of seemingly advanced age for his position, had spoken quietly to Caesar and the general had brushed aside Aprilis’ words.

  ‘No time for such matters, tribune. Send out messengers to every post your garrison occupies. I want a skeleton force left everywhere. All other men are to bring their full kit as fast as they can and muster on the plain across the river. I want the vast bulk of your command in position within three days, for in four I will be taking them with me.’

  And now, three days later, Aprilis was starting to sweat in panic. He had immediately passed the task onto his subordinate, Marcus Aristius, who was always so damned busy and seemed to be far too stiff and military in his manner for such a quiet and peaceful post. To Aristius’ credit, despite the near impossibility of Caesar’s demands, the young, overly-formal prefect had managed to pull in every free man within three-day’s fast ride of Narbo, with all other available troops en route. He would owe Aristius for this, since the man’s efficiency reflected well on the garrison’s commander, and Aprilis had his eyes as always on higher office.

  Taking as deep a breath as he could manage trapped under the restrictive cuirass that threatened to break a few ribs with each influx of air, Aprilis presented himself at the door of his own office. The dangerous-looking cavalry officer with the missing fingers at the doorway looked him up and down, noted the absence of blades at his belt, and nodded.

  As Aprilis stepped into the room, he was surprised to see a map of Gaul hanging from his wall and piles of tablets and scrolls upon his desk, two officers - the older, mean looking one with the expensive sword at his side, and a young man he had heard might be the noble Brutus - rifling through them. Caesar stood looking at the map, scratching his chin.

  ‘What of the Ruteni?’

  The older officer shrugged. ‘Split down the middle. Half of them have been living in the province for two generations, pay their taxes and live well. The other half are beyond the border, but I suspect harbour the desire for what their kin have. At least, that’s what Aristius seemed to infer.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘That route would be the easiest. Priscus certainly seems to be trying to persuade me that is the route to take, circling wide through the lowlands. But I am acutely aware of the need for speed and surprise. By the time we have moved the army halfway through western Gaul, Vercingetorix could be all-powerful. He could have crushed Labienus and the legions and be waiting for us. No. I think it has to be the mountain passes, despite the danger of snow and other problems.

  Brutus looked over at the older officer and the two men nodded unspoken thoughts. ‘Fronto and I are in concord, I think, Caesar. We’d rather fall on them unexpected, too. And that’s the shortest route toward the army, too.’

  The general finally registered Aprilis’ presence.

  ‘Ah, tribune. Thank you for your attendance.’ The general strode around the table and smiled - a look that seemed unpleasantly predatory on that serious, aquiline face. ‘I am afraid I am about to take your army away with me. But fear not, for Narbo will be in no danger as I draw the eyes of Gaul with me to the north. However, I am aware that your forces have been spread over a wide area for some time and have had little sight of action for more than a decade. They will have adapted to garrison life well, I’m sure. So I will require their commander on my staff as we march north - a man who knows them and knows how to use them and motivate them while they readjust to life in the field.’

  Aprilis felt a cold rock of fear settle in his stomach. To war? Into Gaul? He was too old - too fat and lazy if he were to be truthful - for campaigning in the field. Was Caesar punishing him? Aprilis was fairly sure that among the records on the desk were his unusual financial investments. He realised with cold certainty that Caesar knew about his interests and, if he did, he probably knew about the tax-skimming, the deals with certain notorious locals, and the whole gamut of troubles. He swallowed nervously and spoke in a shaky voice.

  ‘I… I would be honoured to take command...’

  The older officer - Fronto? - rolled his eyes. ‘He doesn’t mean you, porky.’

  Relief and confusion mixed with irritation at the reference to his ample shape, but Caesar’s voice cut through. ‘I have taken note of your activity here, Aufridius Aprilis.’

  Here it comes. Please don’t have me stoned!

  ‘A man with your fascinating financial talents is wasted in the field. Aprilis, you are hereby appointed as Questor for the province. Strip off that ridiculous armour and find yourself another office. I want this province to turn an extra ten percent profit under your new position, rising to fifteen in the next year.’

  Aprilis almost collapsed with relief and joy. ‘Proconsul, I would be…’

  ‘But bear in mind that I also want that rather substantial quantity of missing tax to find its way back into the coffers before the month is out.’

  Aprilis could do little but nod, still flooded with relief.

  ‘We will be taking your adjutant, Aristius, who will receive his promotion to tribune in your place. He will command the garrison.’

  Had he not been so restricted by the tightness of his armour, Aprilis might have laughed with joyful relief, or jumped in the air. He could hardly wait to tell his wife.

  The miserable looking one called Fronto tromped across the floor and slapped a wax tablet in his surprised palm. ‘Your last task as tribune here, Aprilis, will be to acquire everything on this list and have it on carts beyond the river by the end of the day. Tomorrow we march into Gaul.’

  Aprilis nodded his understanding. It didn’t matter what was on the list. It the man wanted a pack of elephants or a golden phallus or a bag of hen’s teeth he would do it. He had been given a reprieve and a glorious opportunity all at once, and he would not fail now.

  May the gods help Aristius in the company of these eagles in human form. And pity the poor bastard Gauls who got in the way of that army!

  * * * * *

  The forces of Lucterius had grown beyond his expectation. From the two thousand men who had left Gergovia those weeks ago, he had managed to now field a force that he reckoned to number around eight thousand. And as he trotted his horse along the line of sweating, battle-hungry, optimistic warriors from a dozen tribes combined, he felt once again the pride of striking the initial blow against Rome - bringing war into their territory for the first time in many generations.

  But still, the absence of their soldiers niggled him. As they had passed through the last area of upland, which would deposit them on the wide coastal plain a little over ten miles from Narbo, they had passed a Roman villa that hugged the hillside above the narrow valley, protected by a small fort of the usual Roman form. After some debate, Lucterius had decided that the place had to be taken for the army to pass unhindered, despite the trouble that always came with besieging a Roman fort.

  But the whole place had fallen with hardly a murmur and, as the laughing warriors had happily looted the place and the villa nearby, Lucterius and Cunorix had performed a quick head count of the garrison. Thirty two men! In a fort clearly constructed for half a thousand and which held one of the few passes from the north right into the heartland of the Roman province. The hair on Lucterius’ arms and the back of his neck had been standing proud and nervous for more than a day now, and every sign that the Romans had withdrawn their forces had set his teeth more on edge. He had slept badly last night, assailed by prophetic dreams of a giant eagle ripping a boar to shreds with its iron talons.

  In fact, if he’d not the confidence in his force that he had, he would have turned his army round before they even crossed the border ridge with its scarce-manned tower.

  Another mental image of that dream eagle with gleaming talons flashed into his head and he was so busy telling himself to stop
being so superstitious and foolish that he almost missed the shouts, and the riders were on him before he’d focused. Three of the scouts - two from his own Cadurci and one of the Ruteni more familiar with the region - were racing back along the rough column of men as though divine Sucellos followed them at a run, swinging his godly hammer.

  Lucterius felt his heart catch in his throat.

  ‘What is it?’ he called to the riders as they slowed to his pace and came alongside. In fact, he had a horrible feeling he knew exactly what it was.

  ‘You need to see this,’ the Ruteni rider said quietly.

  ‘And halt the army,’ added his own man.

  ‘And tell them to be quiet,’ chipped in the third.

  His heart pounding in his chest like a racing horse, he nodded to Cunorix and when his favoured warrior approached, he kept his voice low. ‘Have the army halt. Tell them it’s an impromptu leg-rest. But don’t have anyone blow the carnyx, and try keeping the shouting to a minimum.’

  The warrior narrowed his eyes, but nodded and went back to the column as Lucterius kicked his horse into speed and raced off in the wake of the three scouts. His heart was still racing with an increasing sense of urgent foreboding as they left the front ranks of their army behind and veered off to the south, climbing the slope to the side of this shallow valley.

  This region, to the south of the highlands that ran along the province’s border, consisted of a series of such slopes and valleys running alongside one another like the folds in a rucked blanket. The scouts stopped at the top, keeping in the shade of a small spread of beech trees that were still too bare for comfort, still longing for an end to the chill and the frost. Once they had reached an unspoken agreement, presumably that they were not being observed, the three men rode on down into the next shallow valley, perhaps five hundred paces across, aiming for another small knot of beech trees on the next rise. Lucterius wanted to question them, wanted to confirm what he already suspected, but the scouts were not slowing, and something made him keep from shouting.