Vercingetorix nodded. ‘He is astute. And almost certainly correct. Without our cavalry, there is too great a risk of failure if we confront him. Once again, ill luck strips away our advantage. We cannot meet him in the field, and it will take too long for reserves to reach us. We must make for a place of safety while we await reinforcements.’
Cavarinos pursed his lips. ‘Abello is too close to them. Caesar would stop us before we reached the hill. Decetio is too far back south, and again, the journey would take us perilously close to Caesar’s army.’ He paused with a frown. ‘What about Alesia?’
The king nodded appreciatively. ‘The Mandubii owe their allegiance to us, and Alesia is almost as defensive as Gergovia. Perhaps, even without the cavalry, we can repeat our earlier success there. And once the reserves turn up, we’ll trap Caesar between an anvil and a hammer. A good choice. If we push ourselves as soon as the sun is up, we can be behind its ramparts by sunset.’
‘The Romans will know where we’ve gone,’ Vergasillaunus noted. ‘Their scouts are all over the countryside.’
‘That matters not. Alesia is more or less impregnable. We will make a stand there and wait for the reserves.’
Cavarinos nodded, shuddering in his cold wet clothes.
The capital of the Mandubii, then. That was where the big fight of which Fronto and he had spoken would take place.
Alesia…
PART THREE: ENDGAME
Chapter 17
Alesia. Summer 52BC.
Vercingetorix stood tall on the bluff at the western end of Alesia’s plateau, both hands resting casually on the pommel of the long sword at his side, his intelligent, contemplative brow furrowed as he looked down over the aptly-name plain of mud below, his long hair whipping in the evening breeze.
Behind him the sounds of oppidum life went on. Alesia was perhaps a third as large again as Gergovia. Its slopes may not be as steep and unassailable, and its walls not quite as sturdy, but it made a more than adequate camp for the army of free tribes. Despite being so much larger than the Arvernian capital, Alesia supported less than half that population, leaving acres of space for the army that had arrived a few hours ago, even if much of that was at the eastern end and outside the walls. Even now the bulk of the force was still setting up, selecting where to site their tribes and assigning sections of rampart to watch over. Many of the nobles, including the king’s cousin, were busy working with the Mandubian elders of the city, trying to settle in without too much inconvenience to the population. But Cavarinos stood here with Vercingetorix, Lucterius, and the Mandubian chieftain, looking out over the plain, as much to be away from his brother as any other reason.
The local chief looked distinctly uncomfortable as he surveyed the scene before them, and who could blame him. He had not quibbled at the huge army that had arrived on his doorstep and asked that they be given space and food until further notice, warned that the might of Rome would be on his doorstep in a matter of hours. He had not complained at all. But the private silent panic supposedly locked in the darkness of his mind emanated from him like a carnyx call to retreat. Cavarinos could not help but sympathise with the man.
Below them, on the wide plain bisected by a narrow and shallow river, that Roman might was assembling, having appeared on the scene mere hours behind their quarry. Their baggage was yet to arrive, Caesar having clearly considered the wagons safe with the enemy in front of them, and the army had pushed on, harrying the rearmost of the tribes as they ran for the safety of this high mountain.
Legions were moving even now around Alesia’s bulk, heading for the heights of the other hills that surrounded it, where they could watch for every movement and maintain a siege if required.
‘They are sealing us in well,’ Cavarinos noted.
‘They might think so. They do not anticipate our reinforcements, I believe.’
‘We need to learn from the Romans,’ Cavarinos mused, tapping his chin. ‘They like their boundaries. They work by them. If our army is largely encamped at the eastern extremity beneath the walls, they are in danger. The Romans will consider them exposed. All we need do is build a stone wall like the one we had below Gergovia, and maybe a ditch, and the Romans won’t even think of attacking. And it’s a much shorter rampart to build than the last one was.’
The king nodded slowly. ‘Agreed. See to it, Cavarinos.’ He turned with a genuinely warm smile. ‘I value your perceptive observations on the enemy. I am pleased you returned to us safe.’
‘So am I. What do we do about the reinforcements?’
‘Ah, that.’
‘Yes.’
The king reached up and stroked his moustaches, watching the legions moving like some sort of machine down below. ‘They will attempt to seal us in completely. That is their modus operandi. They did so at Vellaunoduno and with the aid of the swamps at Avaricon much the same. They did not try at Gergovia - I believe because the sheer scale of the place put them off - and there they failed, so they will not make that mistake again. Watch for them constructing some sort of circuit.’
Cavarinos frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ He looked around at the landscape he could see in the golden light of the sinking sun. ‘That would have to be an enormous rampart… many miles long.’
‘Caesar has both the men and the patience. It will happen. If we are to do anything, it must be done before those defences go up. It must be done before the dawn.’
Cavarinos sighed. ‘What do you wish of me?’ Subterfuge and distant missions seemed to be his lot in life this year. Somewhere deep in his soul, though - where he would not admit to its existence - a small part of him cheered that he would not be forced to face Fronto in battle. The king’s words ripped that away in a heartbeat.
‘Nothing, my friend. Your place is here with us. You are a constant source of wise recommendations, and the way this war currently wavers I value that input.’ He looked across at the fourth member of their group. ‘Lucterius?’
The Cadurci chieftain turned, currently enjoying a satisfying moment in the late sun. His year had started with numerous failures, but his brave and dangerous cavalry action at Gergovia had finally restored his reputation. Indeed, of the dreadful cavalry attack on Caesar’s army yesterday, only Lucterius had managed to pull together a unit of survivors and get them across the river and back to the army. The rest of the survivors had fled in braces and rare dozens and had filtered back to camp over the following hours.
‘My king?’
Vercingetorix smiled at him. The Arvernian leader was not the king of the Cadurci, of course, but the honorific was heartfelt and he knew it. ‘Only you and the cavalry stand a chance of getting past the assembled legions fast enough to move to free ground and escape their clutches.’
‘You would ask me to leave, my king?’
‘For the good of the army, to seek aid’ Vercingetorix explained. Cavarinos nodded sagely, as aware as the others of the unspoken bonus there: that the loss of so many human and equine mouths in Alesia would ease the food issues somewhat.
‘You will need every good warrior here,’ Lucterius argued. ‘My place is at your side. Send someone else.’
The king shook his head. ‘No. It must be someone in whom I have the utmost trust, and who I know is bright enough and brave enough to get past the Romans and stay free. Take the surviving cavalry - both yours and those other tribes who remain - out of Alesia during the hours of darkness.’
‘And if we break past the Romans, what do you require of me?’ Lucterius asked, sagging slightly.
‘Before you leave, I want you to visit each of the chieftains, kings or higher nobles leading the forces of this army and acquire a seal or other token that confirms that you speak for them. Once you have those, take the horsemen and ride for Bibracte with all haste. With Roman armies in the field and the future of the tribes still at risk, I feel certain that the assembly of chieftains will still be present there. Speak to the assembly and press for war on the grandest scale. Do not hold back. Make cert
ain they are clear on what is required to win this fight and on what is at stake here. We can win now, but only if the tribes decide to fight Rome as a nation. It is time to put aside tribal politics and devote all our power to destroying Caesar.’
The Cadurci leader frowned. ‘Do you think the chiefs here will agree to me speaking for them?’
‘You are respected, Lucterius. And each of those chiefs is now trapped here with us. They know first-hand what is at stake.’
Lucterius nodded and Vercingetorix peered down at the manoeuvring Romans again.
‘Every man who can fight.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We need every man old enough to carry a blade without the tip dropping. We want horse. We want swordsmen. We want archers. We want spear-bearers. Even the greybeards. Every man the tribes can provide. And if they do this, I will give them victory over Rome. If they do not, then we cannot fight our way out of Alesia and more than eighty thousand chosen men of the tribes will be sacrificed on Caesar’s altar.’
‘It will take time to gather the men of whom you speak.’
The Arvernian king nodded. ‘Even though the Mandubii are still in residence, with no cavalry to maintain we have grain for perhaps thirty days. If we agree to suffer hardship, that can be dragged out. Be quick, though, and urge the assembly to be quick.’
Lucterius nodded, his face serious. ‘I will bring you your army, my king.’
The Cadurci chieftain turned and strode off into the oppidum proper, hunting those leaders whose tokens he would need to convince their countrymen, and the king turned to the other two with him. ‘Thank you for your understanding and your hospitality, my friend,’ he addressed the Mandubian chieftain. ‘I would ask that you and my esteemed commander here,’ a gesture made to Cavarinos, ‘divide up the cattle and grain stored in Alesia and distribute it as fairly as possible between the tribes encamped here and the Mandubii population. Cavarinos is a good man. He will not attempt to feed our army at the expense of your people. But if we are to win here and to free our land of the nailed Roman boot, we must pull together as far as possible.’
Almost as an afterthought, he frowned and addressed the local before the two left. ‘I believe we have near two thousand Mandubii among our forces. I would ask that you follow the plan I have set for all the tribes. Any man old enough to lift a sword and young enough to still run would be valued among our army.’
The chieftain bowed his head, and Cavarinos could feel the nerves twanging in the man as he walked alongside away from the western bluff.
Finally alone, Vercingetorix looked down at the forces once more. Several legions had moved off along the valleys to either side of Alesia, taking up position on the hills facing it, but the bulk of the force remained on that wide plain before him. He fancied he could almost discern a white horse and a red cloak moving about among the rank and file, and he smiled coldly.
‘Your time has come, Gaius Julius Caesar, child of Venus and Proconsul of Rome. You came to our land hunting fractured tribes, but in your time here, you have turned us into one Gaul, strong and proud like the boar we revere. And this boar has razor tusks.’
* * * * *
Fronto stood on the low rampart of the large westernmost camp, which rose upon the slopes of a hill known among the scouts as Mons Rea - the mountain of guilt. The name did not sit well with him as a site for such a major base of operations, but Caesar had been set in his design. The general would command the Tenth and Eleventh in a camp on the apex of the southern ‘mountain of the gods’ gate’ hill as well as a second camp further round that same range, housing the Eighth and Thirteenth. Labienus commanded a third camp on the north-eastern hill, known as ‘the maw’, with the First and Seventh in residence. In the shallow valley to the north, a smaller camp would house the Ninth and Fourteenth under Trebonius. Here in the Mons Rea camp, the Twelfth and Fifteenth would guard the plain, with Antonius in command of both that and Varus’ three cavalry camps spread across the wide plain before Alesia. The plan neatly encircled the Mandubian city in a ring of iron and flesh.
Each officer and unit had its place and its hierarchy, though this evening Caesar was present at the site of the Mons Rea camp, overseeing the first phases of the work. Despite granting him a good view across the plain, this camp still looked up at the towering bulk of Alesia, which resembled an upturned boat with its prow pointing at the concentration of Roman forces on the plain. Caesar moved among the men constructing the camp, encouraging and providing heart, even sharing a crass joke here and there with the legionaries as though such talk came naturally.
Antonius produced his ever-present wineskin from the folds of his cloak as the two men moved towards the fire that burned just inside the camp perimeter, holding back the increasing gloom and providing heat against the chill breeze that seemed to come from nowhere to whip across the plain. Varus huddled by the fire, looking bored.
Masgava and Palmatus hovered nearby. Since that damned Priscus had let slip to them that Fronto had wandered off out of camp in the close company of one of the enemy, the singulares had never let him out of their sight and he was beginning to get sick of the admonishment and disapproval that flowed from the men in waves and the way they clung to him like a bad smell. He’d even found it near impossible to crap, with the sound of his bodyguard waiting patiently beyond the leather wall.
‘I’ve never seen a system like it,’ Antonius said between pulls on his drink.
‘It’s certainly one of the most impressive engineering plans I’ve heard come out of that command tent,’ Fronto agreed. ‘On a par with the Avaricon ramp, at least.’
Varus, his cavalry divided between the quarters on the plain and guarding the construction work, was left at something of a loose end and looked up from the warm glow of the fire. ‘Eleven miles of rampart and ditch. Eleven miles! That’s more than a mile for each legion.’
‘Don’t forget the palisade, the towers and the camps,’ Antonius reminded him. ‘It’s days of work at least. Twenty three redoubts, he wants, connecting the main camps.’
‘Caesar is clearly serious about pinning the rebels down this time,’ Fronto noted, warming his hands and gratefully accepting a drink from Antonius. ‘Vercingetorix has been too mobile and troublesome. Now the general has him trapped, he’s not going to give him the chance to slip away and run again.’
‘More than that,’ Antonius mused, ‘I think he’s still smarting from the beating we took at Gergovia. He’ll not let it happen again and he won’t leave this place until he has redeemed both himself and all of us.’ He looked down into the flames. ‘Truth be told, with the ongoing situation in Rome, he cannot afford to. Word of Gergovia has probably already filtered back to the city. I know the lines of communication are cut, but bad news spreads faster than you’d believe and can jump breaks in communication. Rome’s confidence in him will be shaken. He can put that right now, but if he lets the rebel slip away again or win one more fight, it might well be the end of his political career. Pompey will use the failure to destroy him. A lot rides on this fight.’
Varus shook his head. ‘I remember the general saying at Gergovia that we couldn’t afford the time it would take to lay full siege to the place. It would require a vast ramp that would take many months. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this place doesn’t look a whole lot different to me.’
‘There’s one major difference, though,’ Fronto said, passing the wine over to the cavalry commander. ‘Vercingetorix had always allowed for his capital to be a fall-back position, I think. It was extremely well supplied in preparation. The rebel army could have lived a year or more there without worrying unduly, and still had forage opportunities and water. Alesia is not his place, though. Indeed, this city was a peaceful, out-of-the-way town, a long way from the war. They cannot have expected to be besieged, and so there is little likelihood that they have anything more than their own declining granaries for supplies. And now he has a larger army to support. He’s going to start getting hungry fast,
and when that happens he’s going to have to choose between starvation or coming down from his mountain to fight us.’
Antonius smiled wickedly. ‘I hope he does. It’s about time we got the chance to crush the man’s balls. My main concern is that they might try to break out before we construct the ramparts.’
The general had given the order for the circumvallation of the oppidum to proceed at the quickest pace possible. The army was moving in shifts, cohorts resting and on guard duty while others worked, all under the watchful eye of a few legionary guards and cavalry scouts. Then at the next watch the cohorts and guards would swap. But still, eleven miles would take quite a while.
‘Vercingetorix will not commit his entire army to that,’ Fronto replied. ‘If he was willing to meet us in battle he’d have done it before now. He might test us a few times, though.’
‘Sooner rather than later, too,’ coughed Varus, dropping the wine bag and leaping up to the low, unfinished rampart a few paces away. The other two joined him, picking out the faint strains of a cavalry tuba blowing a desperate call a mile or two out across the plain.
It was dark enough now that it had become tough picking out individual detail down on the plain, excepting the camp fires dotted about providing focal points for the legions at work and at rest. But there, perhaps a mile and a half across the flat grassland, something was happening. A flood of large shapes was moving from the lower slopes towards where the Roman presence was thinnest.
Cavalry!
Varus turned to the legionary who was tending the fire, adding roughly-hewn logs from a nearby pile.
‘Bring my horse over here and sound the general alarm.’ His narrowed eyes fell upon Antonius. ‘And where are the Germans quartered?’
The Great Revolt Page 40
