There was a strange silence, and Cavarinos could feel the hearts of the crowd wavering. He almost had them. After all, no one ever wanted to fight for no reason. A voice cut across the crowd amid the distant sounds of hammering and sawing and commands called in Latin. The druid on the balcony.
‘Conciliation with the Romans? A strange stand to hear taken by one of Vercingetorix’s Arverni?’
I wonder how well connected the druids truly are? He wondered.
‘You know me? You know who I am?’
‘You are Critognatos of the Arverni.’
Hmmm…
‘Not quite, druid. I am Cavarinos of the Arverni.’ He was able to see the look of surprise pass across the druid’s face even at this distance. He could almost imagine the facial tic appearing on the man’s eye. ‘I am on my way back to the king with a prize.’ He tapped the leather bag at his belt meaningfully.
The crowd were looking back and forth between foreigner and druid, and Cavarinos, finding it hard not to grin, pictured the man’s brain trying to work out how he could back-track over his own advice in favour of the man who carried the curse of Ogmios. The druid might be willing to sacrifice a whole Senone town on the altar of anti-Roman pride, but his sacred nick-nacks were another thing entirely.
‘You know one of them?’ the druid said, his face shrewd and calculating.
‘I believe so. I believe I met one alongside Vercingetorix last year.’ If only I could remember his name…
‘You would be willing to mediate on behalf of these people?’
Cavarinos smiled beatifically. ‘I would.’
‘You cowardly traitor,’ snarled Critognatos behind him, at about knee level on his way back up. Cavarinos turned to look across the crowd, using the movement to mask a sharp kick backwards into his brother’s belly, keeping him down.
‘I will speak with them at dawn, if you wish it,’ he announced.
* * * * *
Fronto grinned as the dusky maiden clambered off him and began to pour him a drink of finest Opimian. ‘More wine, darling?’
He nodded happily.
‘More hairy arse, darling?’
For a moment, Fronto nodded happily, then his brow creased into a frown.
‘What did you say, my dove?’
‘I said get your hairy arse out of that bed before I throw a bucket of water over you… sir!’
Fronto’s eyes snapped open, his irises contracting at the sudden intrusion of light. Images of dusky maidens retreated into his subconscious and left him with the less-than-pretty picture of Priscus standing over him, waving a vine stick in a suggestive manner.
‘What… where?’
‘You’re needed. One of the Senones has come out the city alone asking to speak to the Roman commander with the black-skinned friend. Didn’t take an awful feat of deduction to work out who that was. You’ve been chosen to parlay for some reason. Get dressed quickly. Dress uniform too, none of your fighting kit.’ Priscus sniffed. ‘At least for once you don’t smell like either an amphora or a latrine.’
‘You’re too kind, Gnaeus.’ Where were his singulares? They were supposed to be guarding his tent, not letting random folk in, even if those random folk were his friends. His gaze wandered to the tent door, where he was irked to see the grinning faces of Aurelius and Numisius, enjoying the scene.
‘Moments only,’ Priscus grunted, drawing his gaze again. ‘Get outside.’ Without a further word, the prefect retreated, leaving Fronto feeling a little confused and forlorn.
‘Dress uniform?’
He tried, without a great deal of either care or success, to think where among all the bags and boxes his best clean kit would be. He knew that almost every other officer would have ten different sets and their body slave would have it ready before they even knew they needed it. Fronto had never been a lover of having such a servant attend him in the field. They were always too active too early in the morning, waking you up before you wanted to surface.
Taking a brief sniff of yesterday’s tunic, he shrugged and pulled it on, quickly followed by his subarmalis with the leather pteruges decorated at the tips, his socks and boots. He left the twin figurines on the thongs around his neck out and in the open… if he was to parlay, a little luck might be useful. A moment later, he leaned out of the door.
‘Masgava, can you help me?’
The big Numidian nodded and entered, lifting the front and back plates of his cuirass and strapping them on. The knotted ribbon of command followed, and then the sword on the baldric. As the former gladiator unfurled the slightly creased red cloak and fastened it around his commander’s shoulders, Fronto pulled on his helmet, noting with dismay the way the crest sagged as though it needed the attentions of the dusky maiden from his dream.
He might not look like a consul or a hero, but he did look like a soldier, and that would have to be enough.
By the time he was stretching his legs outside, Masgava had his singulares formed up and at attention. Ten, including the officers. More than enough.
‘Come on then, lads; let’s go see what the local nutcase has to say.’
Despite the immense size of the Roman camp, the journey was straight and quick, the Tenth being one of the legions closest to the south gate of the oppidum. In a few long moments, he was passing through the opening in the half-formed wattle fence.
His interest was immediately piqued. He had been at many such parlays in the past six years, and they were always conducted by some high noble festooned in gold accoutrements, surrounded by his best warriors and usually with a few carnyxes issuing their deflating-bovine sounds. Here, one man sat on a horse and, while he was well-dressed and well equipped - partially in stolen Roman equipment, Fronto noticed - he looked more warrior than politician. And he was alone, and unserenaded.
‘Identify yourself,’ Fronto called as he closed on the man.
‘I am called Cavarinos. I am authorised by the magistrate of Vellaunoduno to agree terms, on the condition that they are not harmful to the Senones, who are, as you know, oath-bound to Caesar, and consider this siege a breach of etiquette and a shameful act for an ally.’
Fronto grinned.
‘Alright, Cavarinos. How do you know who I am?’
‘I do not,’ the Gaul replied calmly, though Fronto thought he spotted a strange touch of recognition there. ‘You are the officer whose man almost put an arrow through me yesterday afternoon.’
Fronto’s grin became a laugh. ‘Hope you had spare trousers, eh?’
Strangely, the Gaul chuckled back with genuine humour. ‘It was a magnificent shot, given the conditions. I would know your name, Roman?’
‘My name is Fronto. Marcus Falerius Fronto, legatus of the Tenth legion. And the big dark skinned fellow you spotted was one of my two guard commanders - Masgava.’ The Numidian bowed his head. ‘And the other is Palmatus, here.’ Another nod. ‘Now the pleasantries are out if the way, shall we talk business?
‘Your general has come for the grain.’
‘Astute.’
‘I am willing to give him four parts in every five. The rest, which should fit on six carts, will remain with the citizens of Vellaunoduno.’
‘How generous of you.’
‘Yes,’ Cavarinos smiled, ‘I realise that you could take it all, but not without a fight. And it might just get burned in the process. You know how we Gauls can be when cornered. Four fifths free of trouble. And one more thing: the freedom for every citizen to leave unmolested, or stay in their homes and continue to work while Rome sets up its depot here. This is not unreasonable for a free depot full of food, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Fronto nodded. ‘To me. Not to Caesar. He would have other conditions.’
‘Why am I parlaying with you if you cannot agree terms?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘You asked for me, not me for you. And I do not need to consult Caesar. I know what he would ask, and can agree terms. He will want your tribe disarmed. He will want to extend the four fifths to co
ver all other stored food and extant livestock. And he will want hostages to ensure continued peace - say four hundred...’
Cavarinos seemed to consider this, and then took a deep breath.
‘My counter offer is this: Nine tenths of all foodstuffs and livestock. Those who leave the city unmolested may keep their weapons - the countryside is a dangerous place these days - but those who choose to stay will disarm. And sixty hostages, to be chosen by the townsfolk.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I trust I have your word that they will be well-treated?’
‘Unless the Senones suddenly rise up, yes.’
Again, the Gaul pursed his lips and then straightened. ‘These terms are agreeable to you, Legatus Fronto?’
‘They are, Cavarinos.’
‘Give me long enough to explain to the magistrate, and I will be back in due course.’
Fronto nodded. ‘You have until noon. That is plenty of time.’
The man smiled and wheeled his horse, riding back towards the gate. Palmatus and Fronto exchanged a look. ‘That was painless,’ smiled Masgava, giving the signal for the singulares to stand at ease.
‘More is going on here than meets the eye,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘He was wearing a silver serpent armband. He was no Senone warrior. He was Arverni.’
Palmatus scratched his chin. ‘Important, too. I swear I saw him last year when we were in that inn at Bibracte and you talked to Vercingetorix.’
Slowly, Fronto nodded in agreement.
‘It might be a mistake letting him go, but for some reason, I’m inclined to do so anyway. Any Gaul who’s willing to negotiate peacefully is worth hanging onto. Especially if he’s one of the Arverni.’
The small group watched the figure as it disappeared inside the oppidum’s south gate. Fronto scratched his neck and shivered. ‘I think we could do with a little more information on what’s going on around us,’ he murmured, and turned to look back at his honour guard. ‘Samognatos? Have a hearty breakfast this morning. I’ve a job for you.’
* * * * *
‘We should have scraped the wall mildew and infected the wheat stores with it before we left,’ Critognatos snarled nastily. ‘We should have poisoned the wells.’
Cavarinos closed his eyes and counted to five. ‘There are still the best part of a thousand Senones staying in the oppidum. You would kill the women and children?’
His brother turned a fiery look on him. ‘I would butcher the children myself if it meant infecting ten thousand Romans with fungus-infested wheat!’
‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re in this fight for the good of our people or just to stand knee deep in Roman guts.’
The two brothers fell into an unpleasant silence as they passed, along with fifteen hundred men, women and children, along a gauntlet between lines of gleaming legionaries, their officers sitting astride their horses and watching the exodus of the fleeing tribe. Cavarinos was most profoundly grateful that he and his brother had managed to slip into the departing crowd without anyone pointing out their tribal alliance to the Romans.
Glancing back over his shoulder at the oppidum, Cavarinos could see the numerous legionaries already at work in the place, making the alterations necessary to contain a small garrison and form a supply depot. The Roman officer called Trebonius had been placed in charge of the operation and three cohorts of legionaries were in residence now.
Noting Fronto and his companions watching them pass, Cavarinos tried to shrink into himself and make himself less noticeable, wishing his brother would do the same and not sit so defiant and proud on his horse. The two dozen Arverni warriors that served Critognatos had filtered in among the Senones so as not to look too obvious. They would all separate from the column and ride ahead for Vercingetorix once they were well away from the Romans.
It was becoming a matter of urgency now to get back to the army.
Whatever Vercingetorix’s thoughts on the Aedui and the need for their support, he would now be forced to turn his attention elsewhere. While Cavarinos had been preparing to leave, he had caught a chance exchange by several legionaries unloading a cart inside the south gate. It seemed that the three cohorts were all that would remain in Vellaunoduno under Trebonius, for the army would be on the move again almost straight away, on a lightning campaign of severing the Arverni’s ties with their recent allies. Their immediate goal was Cenabum and the crushing of the Carnutes, and then they would be heading south for the Biturige towns of Novioduno and Avaricon.
Avaricon… Not more than forty miles from Gorgobina, where Vercingetorix and the army conducted a slow and patient siege.
* * * * *
Fronto and Priscus watched the rag-tag line of Senones pass, wondering how many other Arverni warriors were concealed among them. If there was one…
‘We’re going to see most of them again soon,’ the prefect muttered, ‘over the top of our shields as they run at us.’
‘You may be right, but at this precise moment they’re doing me a favour.’
His eyes picked out Cavarinos and the man who rode next to him - a man who looked so similar they could only be brothers, but who bore a full beard instead of just a moustache. Then his gaze slowly wandered back across the mass until he spotted Samognatos, a spear shouldered as he rode, his usual native kit close enough in appearance that of the Senones that he blended seamlessly with them.
‘Go careful, my friend,’ Fronto breathed.
Chapter 6
Cenabum.
Fronto stood on the low slope and looked over the Carnute city of Cenabum, images of what must have happened here to the Roman supply depot drifting unbidden and unpleasant through his mind. His singulares and their officers remained respectfully a short distance behind - along with Caesar’s own praetorians - deferring to the command party who examined the lay of the land, while the legions approached still a mile or so further back.
The winds had died down and the rain had held off for the last two days, leaving a chilly stillness that made the hair stand proud on the back of his neck, as though the world held its breath, waiting for something to happen. His gaze wandered to the command group. Almost every officer of note was present, barring the three who remained with the army to keep things moving: Labienus, Priscus and Marcus Antonius.
So far, Fronto had had little time even to exchange pleasantries with the other officers and, after only a brief reunion when they had arrived in Agedincum, the army had been mobilised immediately. They had moved without pause, securing the base at Vellaunoduno and marching straight on to Cenabum to revenge themselves for the murder of the Roman residents a few months ago and to instil in the Carnutes such a bone-deep fear of Rome that they would pull away their support for the Arverni rebel. He made a mental note to spend some time mixing with the more sociable officers the next time the army halted for more than eight hours.
He had been absent from the army entirely two years ago, and even last year had spent much of the campaigning season off in the forests with only his singulares. Much had changed in the time he’d been away, apparently.
He knew most of the legates - the calm and collected Fabius of the Eighth, insightful Rufio of the Eleventh, solid Caninius of the Twelfth, impulsive and unpredictable Cicero of the Fourteenth, and formal Sextius of the Thirteenth - as well as Trebonius of the Ninth back at Vellaunoduno. The new legate of the Seventh was a surprise, though. Lucius Julius Caesar, cousin of the general and uncle of Marcus Antonius, had apparently forsaken his quiet, senatorial life in Rome during the late autumn and had travelled north to take command of the Seventh for his cousin, mere weeks before the lines of supply and communication had been severed. Yet this Lucius Caesar had seemingly taken it all in his stride with hardly a batted eyelid. A taciturn man with stretched, aged skin and a face not given to smiling, the general’s cousin had been efficient if not strong, and Fronto was still trying to decide whether the man was a quiet stoic or just too dumb to panic. If Fronto had come from a cushy estate to this damp, cold hellhole only to discover
that he was immediately cut off from civilization by rebellious barbarians, he would have been a little more vocal about his troubles.
Varus and his three cavalry wing commanders were all familiar, though it was interesting to see young Volcatius, who had commanded the bridge over the Rhenus, among them. Thinking about them and why Volcatius had been drafted in brought home once more the missing shape of Galronus in proceedings. After all these years it seemed inconceivable to be on campaign without him. Fronto hoped against hope that all was going well down in Campania.
The camp prefect stood slightly apart, as though he felt that his difference in rank made him less valuable. That Felix had been made Camp Prefect gave Fronto something of a smile. The veteran centurion deserved nothing less, though he had his work cut out with this lot.
And in addition to that motley crowd of officers on the slope, three staff officers were present, standing behind Caesar like some theatrical chorus from a Greek play. Roscius and Calenus he could understand, but how Plancus had been elevated to the staff instead of sent home with his thumb still up his arse was beyond Fronto.
Fifteen men, representing almost the entire command system of the army above tribunate level. One good ambush from an ambitious enemy and…
His eyes strayed to his singulares, standing ready for trouble only a few paces from the slope, mirrored by Aulus Ingenuus and his praetorian horse guard, who waited patiently close by, eyes on the surrounding landscape, searching for signs of danger.
‘We’re a little in the dark here,’ Caesar hummed. ‘My only officers with a working knowledge of Cenabum are both gone - Crassus in the Parthian desert, and Cita probably in one of the mass graves down there. All we know is what we can see.’
The Great Revolt Page 13
