Then, scarcely thirty heartbeats later they were approaching the top of the next rise, and the Ruteni scout was reining in behind the trees. The other two joined him and, nervously, their commander pulled up alongside them all.
The bottom fell out of Lucterius’ world as his eyes beheld the scene beyond the rise. An endless sea of iron and bronze helms and mail shirts! Shields of deep red with bull and lightning bolt designs rose and fell in perfect symmetry with every step. Hundred upon hundred upon hundred of the Roman javelins they called pila rose from the mass like the spines of a giant metal hedge pig. And at the far side, a small mass of cavalry. Other soldiers moved in groups here and there - not the heavy legionaries, but other forces that resembled the garrison troops of Narbonensis… the missing garrison!
Lucterius felt that lurch in his chest again and found himself counting the width of the column in men and extrapolating for the whole column, which stretched to the distance ahead and behind.
‘For the love of Taranis!’ he whispered. ‘There are thousands of them!’
‘More than us,’ added one of the scouts.
‘Not by much,’ Lucterius countered. ‘I reckon perhaps two legions, along with the garrison and the cavalry. Perhaps ten thousand men?’
The scout from his own tribe who had remained silent nodded. ‘Roughly ten.’
‘And we have eight thousand.’
Lucterius felt a moment of crucial decision weighing down on him. Eight to ten. But with the element of surprise. How had their scouts not spotted his army? Five Romans to every four of them. Worse odds had been carried in battle, especially with surprise on their side. But at the same time, a veteran legion was a behemoth of destruction. One legionary against one of the Cadurci and Lucterius would put his money on his kinsman every time. But put ten Romans in a line, with their encompassing shields, their pilum volleys and a good commander, and he would hesitate to move with a force even three times their number. It was too risky. He would lose. The garrison was one thing. Two veteran legions was a whole different matter.
His eyes scanned the cavalry and picked out certain figures among them. Yes. The officers, and the flag he had learned was Caesar’s: the bull. The man himself was here and in control of two legions and two more thousand support troops. Rome’s greatest general, who had bested the best.
Lucterius knew himself to be a solid fighter, a popular leader and a reasonably competent general. But men he had considered to be the best the tribes had to offer had pitted themselves against Caesar with the odds on their side and had been utterly, ruthlessly and mercilessly crushed.
No. One thing he was not was an idiot. To continue the campaign now was folly. And Caesar had somehow moved before they were all ready. The snake had already made his play… so quickly! Vercingetorix must be told. Had to be warned, lest he merrily continue his political manoeuvring while the Romans thrashed their way across the land.
‘Back,’ he hissed to the scouts. ‘Get back to the column. Tell them we are turning round and heading north.’
‘They won’t like it.’
‘They don’t have to. They just have to do it. We return to Vercingetorix so that we can field a grander army in the face of the Roman threat. We have missed our chance here. Tell the nobles in the valley to have their men stay as silent as possible, yet to move as though the bear-god was swiping at their backs. Caesar is making for the very pass we came through. If we do not get there first, Caesar will reach the rest of the tribes before us and all is lost. We are in a race for the pass and Vercingetorix’s army is at stake.’
As the three riders, unhappy with their tidings, rode off to move the army back the way they came, Lucterius sat beneath the shade of the beech tree and peered across the valley. The figure that could only be Caesar was pointing ahead and then gesturing out wide with his arm. His companion nodded. Fanning out. The distribution of scouts. Lucterius might feel as though fortune had deserted him, but the fact was: had they been a quarter of an hour later along the valley, the scouts now being ordered to deploy would have found them and battle would have been inevitable. And Lucterius was in no doubt as to how it would have ended.
‘I have no idea how you managed this, proconsul of Rome, but I vow that the next time we meet, I will not flee. Your days here are numbered.’
With a sigh of regret tinged with the urgent need to be away before the Romans came close, he wheeled his horse and raced off back towards the army.
* * * * *
The scout - one of Ingenuus’ cavalry, who had spent his formative years hunting in the hills north of Narbo, was waving, ahead. Fronto nudged Palmatus. ‘Find out what he wants.’
The commander of his guard nodded and kicked his horse, inexpertly, lurching forward with all the equestrian skill of a sick badger. Fronto had come out to the van, the bulk of Caesar’s army following along a quarter of a mile behind. Something about this place was making Fronto twitch, and though he couldn’t confirm it, he was sure that earlier this morning, when they were back in the shallower valleys, he had heard a carnyx blare in the distance. So he and his singulares guard had ridden out front to join up with the advance scouts and check the lie of the land.
In addition to Palmatus and Masgava, he was accompanied by Arcadios the archer, busy singing an old Cretan song in a low, thick, tuneless accent, Quietus - quite the loudest legionary Fronto had ever heard, Numisius, now fully recovered from his broken arm half a year earlier, Aurelius - the superstitious clown, Biorix the engineer, Iuvenalis the artillery expert and Celer - short, swift and far too good at dice to be playing fair. And Samognatos, his Condrusi scout, was out front on the far side of the valley. Ten men remaining of the nineteen he had led into the forest of Arduenna last year.
Aurelius cleared his throat.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Legatus, but my sword palm’s itchin’ like the three-day clap and my neck hair won’t stay flat. Something’s not right here.’
Fronto nodded absently. Normally, he took Aurelius’ feelings with a pinch of salt, despite his own reputation for prophetic feelings, but today he shared every bit of the legionary’s eerie premonition.
‘I agree. It looks like the scouts have found something. Hold tight.’
Palmatus rode back, having discussed something with the scout and the latter disappeared down into the valley, slowly, examining the ground. As the former legionary slowed, Fronto scratched his bristly chin.
‘What news, then?’
‘The strangest. There’s a small garrison fort up there at the valley side. Had a skeleton force of four contubernia in residence, but they’ve been killed. All evidence points to a Gallic attack. Beyond is a villa that appears to have been ravaged too. There’s signs of looting and damage.’
‘Looks like my fears have been well-founded,’ Fronto sighed, glancing side-long at Aurelius, who was shivering and kissing his Fortuna amulet.
‘That’s not the weird thing. He’s found tracks. In most places they’ve been hard to spot, as the ground’s so hard and track-resistant at the moment, but there’s a natural spring near the fort and the ground is kept damp because of it. There are the confusing tracks of a large number of both infantry and cavalry there.’
‘Not a surprise, given the destruction of the garrison. Odd that we’ve not seen whoever’s responsible, though. Which direction do the tracks lead?’
‘That’s the odd thing,’ Palmatus replied quietly. ‘Both. The ones heading north appear to be newer than the ones heading south, which are beneath them.’
‘So a large Gallic force came south into Roman territory, presumably when they discovered that we had withdrawn most of the garrison, and then turned round and left. Whether it’s because they heard about us or they’d merely had their fill of loot, it seems they’ve gone. It can only be a good thing anyway. If they were a large force I wouldn’t fancy pitting this lot against them. We’ve all seen what a full-strength Gallic army can do when their blood’s up, they’re well-rested, and probably battl
e-hardened. And all we have is eight thousand sons of shopkeepers dressed up like legionaries.’
He took a deep breath.
‘Anyway. Our sights are not set on local tribes and their opportunistic forays. I could go to Caesar with the news, but I can tell you right now he won’t sanction a hunt for them. He has his sights set on the mountain pass over the Cevenna range, behind which the Arverni await. He intends to hit Vercingetorix below the belt and see how he reacts. I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that when the women and children of his warriors are put to the sword.’
‘I don’t like leaving a potential enemy army floating around down here behind us,’ Palmatus muttered.
‘Nor do I. But we’re playing close to time here. We need to be over the mountains and among the Arverni before word reaches Vercingetorix that we are in his lands.’
He looked up at the hillside above. This valley was deep enough, but it would pale into insignificance when they reached the Cevenna. Priscus had already told him horror stories about the lofty passes.
‘Ah, shit. Here we go again.’
* * * * *
Cavarinos wiped the faint drizzle from his face, ground his teeth and let his gaze slip to his brother who rode alongside, unconcerned. Critognatos was more stubborn than any mule - smelled a little like one, though - and the almost continual alternating between tiresome argument and brooding silence between the pair had led to their escort of two dozen Arverni warriors from their home at Nemossos tactfully riding some forty paces behind, almost out of range of the bickering.
It was not unknown for brothers to argue, even rabidly, Cavarinos supposed, but the years had brought only a deepening of their disagreements and a widening of the rift that had begun to form between them even as children. It was a situation that their mother had bemoaned until the day the flux had taken her and that their father had demanded repeatedly that they repair.
Both brothers had made their attempts over the years to stitch that tear in the fabric of the family, but every attempt had failed, and had often widened the gap. Cavarinos had repeatedly tried to find common ground that they could use to lay the foundations of a new relationship, but inevitably, Critognatos would bring it back to being the will of some god or spirit, which Cavarinos simply could not accept. The gods may or may not exist, but he knew in his heart that it was he, and not some invisible, intangible force that widened or narrowed their rift. His oafish brother had, in fairness, made his own attempts at healing, but they inescapably revolved around something or other that Critognatos loved, which was almost always something abhorrent to his brother.
And so the rift divided them and, it seemed, would always do so.
Cavarinos took another preparatory breath and launched once more into his point.
‘The thing is, brother, that while we were given two orders and told which of us should pursue each goal, we are now many leagues away from Vercingetorix and the rest, and no one will ever know if I stir up the tribes and you go hunting magical acorns or whatever from the druids.’
Critognatos flashed that familiar look at him. ‘You heard the king. It is the will of Ogmios that you find the curse.’
‘And it is the will of me that you find the curse.’
‘No. It must be done the way the gods will it. Would you deny and defy Ogmios and risk your all? I will not.’
Cavarinos, still grinding away at his molars, turned his attention to the road before them, and the oppidum at the end of that short stretch of dirt and gravel. Vellaunoduno rose upon a low hill, augmented with heavy earth-backed ramparts. On a rising spur, the western, northern and eastern slopes were high and powerful, while a long, gentle gradient led to the south gate, where the road wound in through the defences. It then disappeared among the packed structures that poured wood smoke up into the grey sky, undampened by the blanket of fine mizzle. The gate lay open, though four warriors stood on the ramparts beside it, ready to slam and bar it should the need suddenly arise.
The brothers approached in cantankerous silence, their horses’ hooves the only noise in the oppressive atmosphere. The guards threw out a quick request for them to identify themselves and then permitted them entrance to the oppidum without further question, charging them to keep their escort under control and that no weapons be drawn, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of the magistrate’s justice.
The town, one of many such that belonged to the Senones, was dirty and chaotic, houses packed tightly together, the streets so muddy and filled with ordure that the cobbles only showed in rare glimpses.
‘It’s a sign,’ Critognatos hissed suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence as he made repeated warding motions. Cavarinos followed his gaze to see a stone slab rising beside a blacksmith’s forge, the figure of a squat, wide man with long bushy hair, a great club and heavy cross-hatched trousers carved upon it. Cavarinos could not help but notice that Ogmios here was depicted with neither beard nor moustache. It seemed odd. No facial hair at all almost universally meant either a child or a Roman. On his occasional trips into Narbonensis and to the Greek port of Massilia, Cavarinos had seen their great temples to Hercules who was also Herakles. It occurred to him that Ogmios was almost exactly the same, although shorter, more deformed and most definitely more ugly. If the tribes were going to honour their gods, he found it ridiculous that the druids advocated the raising of these hideous depictions, while the hated enemy to the south made their Hercules realistic and handsome, painted to be so lifelike, and enthroned him in temples that were grander than any royal palace in any of the tribes of what they called Gaul.
Sometimes, Cavarinos could not help in his gut wondering what the tribes would be capable of given the learning, the support and the friendship of Rome instead of this interminable conflict.
‘It is not a sign. It is a lump of stone.’
‘This is Ogmios, brother,’ Critognatos snarled. ‘Do not deny the clear sign. You speak of defying his will and immediately we find him watching you. He has gifted us a great gift, dropping it from the clouds into the hands of the shepherds that we may use it to finally destroy the Romans!’
Unless Ogmios is actually Hercules and all this is an immense and sick joke upon us all, Cavarinos muttered under his breath. He glanced across at his brother and noted the look of sheer devoted nervousness in his eyes. The truth hit him then: it mattered not whether Ogmios was the great god, or just their name for the Roman club-bearer, or even a figment of their imagination. It mattered not whether this curse was a powerful weapon sent by a vengeful god, or a magic artefact crafted by the druids in secret and accounted that of a god, or just drivel hacked into a stone by a madman.
No.
What mattered was belief.
Critognatos was so consumed by his belief that if a druid told him to walk off a cliff because Taranis asked him to, his brother would leap into the abyss with joy in his heart. Faith was a powerful force. And his brother was far from alone in this belief. Indeed the vast bulk of the army of Vercingetorix and the tribes that supplied those forces were every bit as prey to superstition as Critognatos.
The curse didn’t have to kill. It didn’t have to be infused with the power of a god. So long as the army believed it did, they would revere it and fight all the harder, filled with courage and sureness by the mystical.
His brother was right about one thing. Cavarinos did have to retrieve that tablet, and wield it, so that the army’s courage was bolstered.
‘Very well,’ he said, bowing faintly to the stone, despite the fact that the act made him feel foolish. ‘I will go and hunt the curse of Ogmios in the warrens and secret places of the shepherds. And you will raise the tribes to Vercingetorix’s cause.’
His brother nodded his agreement.
‘But,’ Critognatos replied, ‘you should not return to the army when you find it. Such a sacred gift is too precious to risk on the road south alone. Wait until I am finished in my task, and we will all travel back together, with our warriors to pro
tect you.’
‘Agreed.’
‘We shall not be more than three weeks before we are ready to return. Any longer than that and Vercingetorix will find himself committed and we risk the Romans finding out and committing their own armies in the field. We need to be back by then, along with whatever forces we can raise.’
Again, Cavarinos nodded. ‘Agreed. Then we shall meet here in three weeks. I may be here earlier, of course, but I will keep the tablet secure until you join me.’
In one of those rarest of occasions, his brother cracked his miserable face with a smile and reached out to grip Cavarinos’ hand.
‘Good luck, brother.’
Cavarinos found himself shaking the hand in surprise. ‘And to you.’
Chapter 4
High in the Cevenna range.
Februarius had come and the advancement of another month on the calendar did nothing to bring signs of spring any closer. Indeed, as the army of Julius Caesar moved ever higher into the lofty peaks of the region over the succeeding days, winter seemed to come down on them with renewed vigour, running the whole gamut from chilling rain through hail, ice, sleet and snow. The legions, while they had been partially trained, well-equipped and thoroughly enthusiastic, were little prepared for such conditions and were finding the journey hard.
After only a day and a half moving up from the border, they began to pass through lands owned by the Helvii tribe, who refused to show themselves in any strength to the invasive force, melting away as soon as the scouts saw them and scattering among the high peaks and deep valleys to seek shelter in caves or hidden fortresses. Initially, Caesar had given the order that such groups when seen should be dealt with, since they at least nominally owed allegiance to the Arverni and their king, Vercingetorix. In the event, the practicality of sending barely-trained, frost-bitten legionaries or out-of-condition garrison troops after such parties was soon brought home to them when half a century of men vanished over a cliff in a small avalanche caused by a blaring carnyx. Since then, for the next three days, Caesar’s strict orders had been for the men to stay together in the column and to do their best to support one another through the harsh conditions. The few tribesmen they managed to entrap were simple farmers and woodsmen with no knowledge of events beyond their own village, yet whose local knowledge was proving invaluable in the army’s passage of the peaks.
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