A sharp jerk out with his left arm and the shield cracked into another man, knocking him back and buying Atenos time to stab out and then slash with his gladius, taking the fifth man in the neck and then cutting across his midriff. The Gaul who’d been felled by his own dead friend had apparently decided that the centurion was too tough a prospect and had staggered to his feet and run off to attack one of the clearly-less-dangerous legionaries. The remaining man, unarmoured and his face bloody from the shield blow, blinked the crimson flow from his eyes and threw himself at the centurion.
Casually, contemptuously, Atenos simply stepped back a pace and allowed the Gaul to overextend with his strike. As the man almost fell forward into the blow, the big centurion brought his own sword down and hacked off the man’s hand just above the wrist, where the bones were delicate and the muscle thinnest.
As the staggering, agonized Gaul yelped, Atenos grabbed his tunic and drew him face to face, speaking in a low, menacing rumble and in his own native Gallic tongue.
‘Go back and tell your friends that the Tenth are waiting to chain them to the lord of corpses for their journey to the next world.’
The Gaul stared at Atenos in horror and bewilderment and, unable to tear his eyes from this demonic Roman with the Gallic tongue and the knowledge of Ogmios, he turned and fled. Atenos looked down in satisfaction at the array of bodies before them and ran a small calculation in his mind. Looking along the line of legionaries, finishing off the last few enemies already, he grinned.
‘Three hundred little fights like that and we’ll have ‘em beat, lads.’
As perhaps twenty Gauls fled back down the slope, Atenos freed the shield-wall, and the better throwers among the front rows stooped, pulling the few intact pila from earth or flesh and then casting them after the retreating Gauls, taking another half dozen before they were fully out of range.
It would be nice to think that this little show meant the rebels were getting desperate already, but Atenos knew the Gallic mind. These were small test forays and nothing more. Someone up on that hill was watching the result.
* * * * *
Lucterius fell silent, his last words - a plea from the heart to commit everything they could to the cause - ringing around the council hall of Bibracte. His heart sank. He had expected a raucous reaction, whatever the result. He’d hoped the various tribal leaders and ambassadors would leap to their feet enthusiastically, seeing this as their great chance to do away with Caesar, shouting and bellowing their bloodlust as they committed every man old enough to carry a spear. More realistically, he’d expected an explosion of argument as some tribes threw in their wholehearted support while others dithered. Then there’d be a period of negotiation in which his rhetoric would be put to the test, attempting to get all the men the army needed.
What he had not expected was the complete absence of reaction. No noise, no movement, nothing. After a long pause, two of the assembled leaders shared some sort of unspoken conversation and concluded it with a nod, the pair rising to their feet on opposite sides of the chamber.
As the spokesman for the Carnutes took a step forward, the ambassador for their neighbouring tribe, the Senones, rose beside him. But these two remained silent, nodding to the other standing figure.
Convictolitanis of the Aedui folded his arms as though unassailable and breathed deep.
‘The Arvernian king demands too much. He believes we can supply a constant stream of men for him to cast into Caesar’s ditches. He does not seem to understand that while the men of the tribes are at war the fields lie untilled and all the necessary trades that keep our societies moving grind to a halt. And meanwhile the German tribes are causing trouble enough that the Treveri cannot afford to join us, so hard pressed are they. What happens if the Treveri fail and the Germans push deep into our lands to find all our warriors away under grave markers beside Roman camps? And what if the pushes against the south fail and draw Roman retaliation? What if all our men are fighting Caesar and Pompey or one of his generals marches north from Narbo with another ten legions?’
The man shook his head and fixed a sympathetic look on the Cadurci chieftain.
‘It is not that we do not appreciate the situation or the sheer bravery and skill of your army. It is not that we underestimate your achievements, Lucterius. We voted to support you, after all. It is simply that we cannot commit every man of every tribe.’
Lucterius opened his mouth to speak, but the Aeduan magistrate chattered on regardless. ‘You see, Lucterius, while you were all charging around the countryside, wasting the cavalry of the tribes, we have carefully accounted for all the manpower available across our states. It is simply out of the question to send every able bodied warrior to help Vercingetorix, I am afraid. But while we all recognise the importance of keeping a defensive force for our own protection and to keep our societies functioning, we can also accept the value of supporting the Arverni’s war effort. It seems viable to me, with the consent of my peers of course, to divide the forces we have counted up roughly evenly between the war against Caesar and the needs of our own tribes.
The Cadurci chieftain felt the ire rising within him.
‘This is ridiculous. You’re all being so short-sighted! Vercingetorix asks for every man. Every man! And you know why? Because he is a brilliant leader and he knows what it takes to beat Caesar. You need to supply every man who can carry a sword. Because if we lose this battle, then we lose the war, and with the manpower we’ve thrown into it that means we lose for good. If we lose, every man who can carry a sword - whether they rode with us or stood on their farmstead watching for Germans - is going to end up as a Roman slave. But if we win? If we win, we will be free. Every man, everywhere, will be free. Don’t you see? There is no sense in a partial commitment to this cause. It’s all or nothing. Send every man to ensure success, or give up now and sell your children to Caesar.’
‘You do not understand the realities, Lucterius. You Cadurci are surrounded by allied tribes and safe in the west. You are not threatened by Rome or the tribes across the Rhenus. You ride with blind devotion because you have had no cause to see problems elsewhere. No. We can grant you a strong force. A force that will match the army the Arvernian already leads.’ He dredged his memory and counted off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘Half the overall warriors of the tribes. That’s thirty thousand from the Aedui and our allies. Twelve thousand from the tribes along the Elaver and the upper Liger. Ten thousand from the Belgae and the Lemovices. Eight from the Parisii and their neighbours. Five from the eastern tribes near the Germanic threat and from the northern sea tribes. Thirty thousand from the tribes of the old Helvetii mountains and below. Six thousand from the western sea tribes. That, if I have my math correct, gives you just over one hundred thousand men.’
Lucterius frowned. It would be a large force. But then, if that was half the men available, think what force they could field. And a sensible commander who knew the efficiency and power of the legions would never commit happily to battle without at least four-to-one odds in their favour.
‘We need more. It sounds a lot to you, but you’ve not watched those legions at work this summer. We will only crush them with sound strategy, bravery, and overwhelming numbers.’
‘Then look to yourselves,’ the Carnute leader snapped. ‘We are aware that not all the Cadurci are committed. Nor can the same be said for the Arverni and their lesser tribes. Throw in more numbers of your own. Our figures suggest you can field another thirty thousand between you.’
Lucterius nodded, remembering the trusted nobles of Arverni and Cadurci blood he’d sent south this morning under the command of his loyal nephew Molacos, just before they’d arrived at Bibracte. One hundred and thirty thousand in all, then. It was a powerful force, for sure. But still not the force they could produce.
‘All our people are already being summoned, Aeduan. We commit every man we have now, just as the king requires. Once more, I ask you, for the good of all the tribes and generations of free m
en to come, forget your ephemeral other dangers and your potteries and farms for this one season, forget that you are a hundred tribes, and be one nation with one army. Every man is needed. Every sword can make the difference.’
‘I will make your difference.’
Lucterius turned in surprise at the voice from the doorway - a tone heavily inflected with the Belgic accent. The speaker was well-attired in Gallic trousers and gold and bronze torcs and rings, but with a very Roman-looking cloak and crimson tunic.
‘Commius?’ murmured Convictolitanis in surprise, and Lucterius frowned. He knew of only one Commius. The chieftain of the Atrebates, who had been Caesar’s staunchest ally in the north for many years. A man Caesar himself had put in charge of conquered tribes such as the Morini. A man more Roman than Gaul. A man… could this really be him?
‘Lucterius of the Cadurci? Take the men the council offers. I have thirty thousand mixed cavalry and infantry arriving from the north this day, mere hours behind me. I come to join your struggle and take war to Rome.’
Lucterius frowned. Another thirty thousand. One hundred and sixty in total. Not the number he’d hoped. It would give them perhaps three-to-one odds. But it was clearly the best he was going to manage. And time was now of the essence. The longer Vercingetorix had to hold, the hungrier, weaker and more despondent the trapped tribes would get. He would have to march the men being offered as soon as they could be assembled.
‘Very well. I will take your forces and relieve Alesia.’
‘Not quite,’ Convictolitanis said, eyes narrowing. ‘The Arvernian king sends you away from the fight.’ He raised his voice, addressing not Lucterius, but the rest of the ambassadors and leaders in the room. ‘He does this because he is unconvinced of the Cadurci chief’s value as a commander. Remember, we have all heard the stories. Sent to ravage Narbo, and this man ran north instead, with his tail between his legs, having met Caesar.’
Lucterius’ eyes widened. He felt his blood begin to boil.
‘And he failed to save Novioduno, chased off by a band of hired Germans.’
The room was beginning to nod their agreement, and Lucterius spluttered angrily. ‘I saved Gergovia. And at the cavalry fight before Alesia I was the only one who managed to save some of the riders.’
‘You led a reckless, stupid charge at Gergovia, and you managed to run away from a cavalry fight,’ snapped Convictolitanis. ‘The Aedui will not entrust their new force to your care, and nor will any other here, I feel. Command your own Arverni and Cadurci contingent, Lucterius.’
The Cadurci chief hardly dared breathe for fear his temper should fail entirely and he cross the room and break the Aeduan magistrate in half.
‘Let Commius command the army,’ suggested the Carnute chief, bringing more nods from around the room.
‘A man who has wiped Caesar’s arse for five years now?’ retorted Lucterius angrily.
Commius simply regarded him with apparent sympathy. ‘I will lead the army if it is the wish of this gathering, though I would have each tribal contingent commanded by one of their own under my generalship.’
Lucterius stared, unable to believe how unexpectedly wrong things had gone here. As he listened to the room roar its consent and approval of the Atrebate chief’s appointment, all he could do now was hope that Commius was up to the job.
* * * * *
Cavarinos looked at the gathered leaders in this large structure built against the western walls of Alesia, their features lit by the dancing flames of the central fire pit.
‘We have to consider the possibility that Lucterius has failed, and that there is no help coming. We have no way to be sure that he even managed to make it past the Romans that night. None of the men made it back here.’
Vergasillaunus shook his head. ‘I am convinced he made it. And the druids confirmed it with questions to the gods and with auguries.’
‘The gods pay attention to such trivial matters, do they?’
‘We cannot afford to wait forever for an army that may or may not be coming,’ grunted Teutomarus. ‘Food is already becoming an issue. The Mandubii are eating more than we expected, and soon we will begin to starve.’
‘Perhaps Caesar would consider terms?’ asked one of the lesser chiefs in the darkened corner nervously. Cavarinos couldn’t help feel for the young man, but even though he himself would have approved of almost anything by now that avoided the fight to come, he knew as well as any of them that the time for talking was long past.’
‘There will be no surrender,’ Vercingetorix said with finality.
‘A fight, then,’ Teutomarus said quietly. ‘Time to sally out and try and take them?’
‘Foolish,’ countered the king. ‘It has been almost two weeks. Their defences are complete and their legions encamped and our numerous forays found no weak spots. Caesar and his generals have laid their siege carefully. Any attack would be inviting our complete destruction. Without the aid of a relief force, we are doomed. And I still have heart that Lucterius will bring us those men. We will not take the fight to the Romans until relief arrives or until we are starting to die and there is no other choice. We must therefore seek measures to extend our stay here.’
‘Let no one speak of capitulation,’ snarled Critognatos, standing. ‘Cowards are worse warriors than corpses. I would suggest that that man,’ he pointed at the nervous chieftain in the corner, ‘be ejected from the city and relieved of his command.’
‘Out of the question,’ said Vercingetorix, and Critognatos harrumphed.
‘A sally would be wasteful,’ the big noble rumbled. ‘We have thrown enough hundred to the Roman she-wolf in testing their defences to know that it is futile. The king is correct that we must wait for the relief, who will come. How could the tribes let us die here without support? And look to the Romans’ siege works: they defend themselves not only against us, but against an unseen enemy from beyond. The Romans know that relief is coming. So the king is right: we must endure until then.’
Cavarinos narrowed his eyes. Such sense and reason seemed so far out of character for his brother that he waited with bated breath for the catch.
Critognatos rolled his shoulders and spread his hands.
‘Who here does not know the tales of our ancient heroes? Who does not know of the war against the Teutones and the Cimbri? Our grandfathers and great grandfathers fought those invaders who had crossed the Rhenus, and when they found themselves trapped in the same manner as us, what did they do?’
No!
Cavarinos felt his blood chill. All knew of that story, though few spoke of it. There was the catch. There was Critognatos’ casual inhumanity bubbling to the surface, just as he’d expected.
‘Yes. It seems unthinkable. But our ancestors survived siege and great privation through such sacrifice. In such times of war, women, children, the old and the wounded are nothing but a drain on supplies. In the face of the Cimbri, such folk - useless to the war - had the honour and sense to take their own life and not burden the army with their continued presence.’
Vergasillaunus was shaking his head. ‘This is different. There the sacrificed were their own tribe. Here, we would be asking our hosts to do this unthinkable.’ His gaze slid to the Mandubian chief, whose eyes had bulged and face paled. ‘We cannot expect the Mandubii to take their own lives just to spare the grain for the rest of us.’
Cavarinos glared at his brother with distaste. ‘You’re suggesting more than that, aren’t you, Critognatos. Because we all know what happened to the bodies of those women and children.’
The room fell silent. No one would speak of the cannibalism that had risen among the besieged in those days. The survivors had outlasted the German onslaught by eating the corpses of those who could not fight. Almost every gaze in the room - barring the one nervous young chief who dare not - looked around at Critognatos, who simply shrugged.
‘This is war. In times of war we do what we must in order to win.’
Cavarinos snorted, but his
brother bridled. ‘War makes unpleasant demands on everyone. This army had no compunction about burning cities and farms to prevent the Romans foraging. Or about abandoning unimportant settlements to death or slavery at their hands. We do what we must. How many children and women died because we burned their crops and butchered their animals? But you come out of that as master tacticians! This is no different.’
‘It is entirely different,’ snarled Cavarinos. ‘I will have no part in an army that would butcher the civilians here and eat their flesh just to drag out the war. I do not advocate surrender, and I would rather not launch myself at the Roman lines down there, but I damn well will not prolong my life at the expense of children!’
‘Then you will starve, we will lose, and those children will die anyway,’ said Critognatos with a sneer.
Before he knew it, Cavarinos was on his feet and growling, his hand going to the hilt of the sword at his side, contemptuous gaze fixed on his brother. In a heartbeat, Vergasillaunus was between then, his hands coming up to grip Cavarinos by the biceps. ‘Calm, my friend. Your brother just posits answers to our dilemma. We cannot and will not agree to such a measure.’
‘Though Critognatos’ suggestion does raise another possibility,’ said the king, his commanding tone cutting through the room and silencing the rising voices. All eyes turned to Vercingetorix, whose own gaze had fallen upon the Mandubian chieftain who ruled Alesia and whose face had drained of all colour in the past few moments.
‘My fearsome friend spoke hastily, but he is correct on one count: we cannot continue to feed those not involved in the war. It is my edict that every Mandubian who can raise a sword join the forces, and that the rest, including women and children and the old and ill pack their valuables. They will leave the oppidum by the south-western gate and seek passage through the Roman lines. The Romans are our enemies, but they pride themselves on being men of honour. They should let the civilians past, and they can then head south for the safety of Bibracte. And if the Romans cannot be persuaded to allow them passage by honour alone, they can buy it with their valuables.’
The Great Revolt Page 43
