The Great Revolt

by S. J. A. Turney

  For a brief moment, Cavarinos caught a clear view of the Roman officer’s face. Despite the mud and blood coating it, he could see the blazing, unrestrained fury in Fronto’s expression. Whatever had got into him, he would not stop this fight until either he or everyone around him was dead.

  The scene played out in a matter of scant heartbeats. Cavarinos dithered. He could leap into the fray, of course, and it was not the fear of wounding or death that kept him from doing so. It was the knowledge that if he joined the fight, he had no idea who he would strike. He could hardly attack his own brother, after all. But to drive a blade into Fronto’s gut seemed almost as unpalatable.

  Impasse. What could he do?

  Two more of the better-dressed Romans were being pushed back to the rampart by half a dozen large warriors, and another of the regular legionaries disappeared with a shriek and a spray of blood. The fight was coming to an end and the Romans were losing. But Fronto was not pulling back with them. The press of rebels pushed the sortie back and back, leaving a small island of combat out in the open. Fronto and two of his well-dressed companions, including a huge dark-skinned one, fought like lions against almost a dozen warriors, though Fronto continued to concentrate on his struggle with Critognatos.

  Cavarinos knew his brother. He might be truly unpleasant and utterly thoughtless, but he was also a powerful and skilled warrior and no more likely to give up than Fronto.

  Even as he watched, his brother managed to smash Fronto in his head with his shield, sending the legate staggering back with a dented helmet, blood running from his nose. Fronto was fighting hard, but he was over a decade older than Critognatos - possibly even two decades - and he was losing.

  Cavarinos tried to take a step forward, but his body seemed unable or unwilling to move, and he watched in dismay. His hand strayed down to his sword pommel again and he watched Critognatos reel back, his shield ripped from his arm. Fronto leapt forward, snarling, and the big Arvernian slammed forward at him as the two remaining Roman guards fought to hold their own against the enemy. One of them kept trying to pull Fronto back, but was too busy trying not to get himself killed to achieve much, and Cavarinos could hear them shouting for Fronto to pull back. Indeed, the rampart was lined with Romans not egging their friends on, but urging them to retreat.

  One of the pair was about to die and he couldn’t bring himself to hope it was either. Memories of his parents attempting to keep the warrior brothers close as boys - failing dismally even then - swam into his head. His long-gone mother and father would never forgive him if he let Critognatos die when he could help. His left hand touched the figurine at his neck, and his right drifted from the sword hilt to the leather case at his belt.

  Before he’d even known he was doing it, his fingers had fumbled the case open and were pulling out the tightly-wrapped bundle within. Staring at the irreplaceable, dreadfully important burden he had carried, Cavarinos began to unwrap it even as he watched his brother fall back again under Fronto’s savage onslaught. Then his brother struck a powerful hit and Fronto staggered to a knee for a moment before hauling himself back up and leaping in again.

  Cavarinos lifted the thin slate tablet up to eye level, momentarily blocking the view of the deadly struggle. Strange figures and arcane words he did not recognise, even with his command of three written languages, crawled across the dark grey surface like the tracks of spiders, seeming to shift, blur and move even as he concentrated on them. He shook his head. It was his tired eyes, of course, after a long night of battle and in the surprisingly bright pre-dawn light.

  The tablet lowered a little and he watched the struggle beyond.

  ‘OGMIOS!’ he bellowed, his eyes widening in surprise - he’d not meant to say anything really. The name of the lord of words and corpses echoed across the grass, punctuated by the crack as he snapped the slate tablet in two.

  Critognatos turned, mid-combat, his eyes bulging with shock and horror.

  And as the big Arvernian momentarily lost concentration, Fronto struck, that glittering, gleaming, beautiful sword which Cavarinos had so admired at the sacred spring sinking hilt-deep into his brother’s back. Critognatos arched in agony and opened his mouth to shout, instead issuing a spray of blood from his throat.

  Even as Fronto struck the killing blow, the big dark-skinned Roman was pulling him back, dragging him away from the danger. Fronto’s rage seemed instantly spent, his eyes no longer on the opponent he had just killed, but now on Cavarinos. The other warriors had stopped, shocked at what was going on around them, and the big, black soldier managed to pull Fronto back. The legate desperately tried to pull his sword from the big Arvernian’s body, but it was jammed fast and as Critognatos toppled forward with a cough, the sword went with him, the big man disappearing among the endless corpses littering the field.

  The big dark legionary hauled Fronto physically back to the rampart, where other Romans leaned over to pull him up, the legate’s eyes never leaving Cavarinos as he allowed himself to be removed, unresisting.

  The remaining dozen or so Gauls had stopped in shock at the scene, but as the world seemed to come back to life around them a call went up from the rampart and, now that there were no Romans among the crowd, archers and artillerists concentrated on the small group, picking them off with ease.

  An arrow whipped past Cavarinos’ head yet he hardly dared breathe, let alone move.

  ‘Run, you fool!’

  Cavarinos wasn’t sure whether the words had come from Fronto or had just been in his own head, but the enormity of what had just happened suddenly came crashing down just as the scorpions in the nearest two towers turned on him, and Cavarinos turned and ran, the last figure on the battlefield to leave, and the last to have caused a death after all.

  * * * * *

  Fronto stood bleeding on the walkway, his head thumping from the blow he’d received that had ruined his helmet. Masgava was covered in wounds and yet was still holding him up, strong as ever. Palmatus had disappeared in that awful bloody foray, along with several other singulares. All sacrificed to the memory of Priscus.

  The death of his friend had driven him mad. He barely remembered climbing over the fence. He had fleeting images of his bodyguards trying to stop him and then being forced to join him, along with a couple of squads of legionaries that had for some reason been shadowing him all the way back from Antonius’ side.

  Cavarinos?

  He could hardly believe it. He hadn’t recognised the animal he’d been fighting until he saw Cavarinos, and then he recognised the brothers. His rage had blinded him at first. He’d have lost. He knew he’d have lost. The man had been stronger and quicker than him, despite Fronto’s battle rage.

  Cavarinos had saved him.

  What the Gaul had actually done, Fronto couldn’t quite understand. He’d called the name of one of their gods while he brandished something weird and dark in the air. Whatever it was had diverted the big monster, though, and given Fronto the opportunity he needed.

  ‘Lucky that Gaul distracted his friend, eh?’ Masgava noted as though reading his thoughts.

  ‘That wasn’t luck,’ Fronto replied in a hoarse whisper. ‘Whatever he did, he did it for me. I saw his eyes.’

  ‘Why would he help you?’ Masgava frowned.

  ‘Because not all of them are savages, my friend. Not all are savages.’ Fronto heaved in a deep, cathartic breath. ‘Help me to the dead-piles. I think I want to see Priscus. And then we are going to Antonius’ tent and for the first time in many a month, I am going to drink until I can no longer remember my name.’

  Chapter 22

  Lucterius yawned. The night had been busy and dreadful and like every other man present he needed a few hours’ good uninterrupted sleep more than anything else in the world.

  But that would have to wait…

  ‘Where did your vaunted leadership get us?’ Commius snapped petulantly, gesturing at Vergasillaunus, who simply shrugged calmly as he replied. ‘We suffered a setback. Nothing
more. The Roman lines were always going to be difficult to break through. You knew that, Commius, for you would not even try.’

  Commius ignored the barely-veiled insult and ploughed on angrily. ‘The fact remains that I had an army on this hill that was strong, well-fed and in high morale. You took the command from me and now we have an army that is licking its wounds after two utterly demoralizing defeats, down on manpower and starting to become restless as the supplies we brought with us dwindle.’

  Lucterius rubbed his weary eyes. ‘You have a plan of inaction again, then, Commius?’

  The former commander turned a baleful glare on him, but said nothing.

  ‘If you think our morale has taken a hit,’ Vergasillaunus went on quietly, ‘imagine how it has affected the Romans. Our first assault showed them our strength and that we were cunning - not the mindless howling barbarians they believed us to be. That will have given them pause for thought. Our second assault was so strong that we almost cleared the defences on the plains and the Romans were forced to draw reinforcements from their redoubts and forts all around the system. And throughout all this, their supplies have dwindled just as much as ours, but, while we can supplement ours with forage, the Romans are trapped within their fences and must make do with what they have. No. We have suffered two abortive attacks, but they were not defeats, for we are still here, are we not? We have suffered two abortive attacks, but the Romans are hard pressed and becoming more so with every passing day. I would by choice now give them a couple of days to simmer before we hit them again’

  He looked across the slope of the hill, past the encamped army and at the oppidum ringed in a double line of fortifications which tore a thick brown line across the land.

  ‘But I am ever heedful of my cousin’s army in Alesia and their own dwindling supplies. We must finish it soon for their sake. And so we move tonight.’

  A sneer crept across Commius’ face. ‘A night attack? Because our last attempt was so successful. No new ideas, then Vergasillaunus?’

  The king’s cousin gave his opposition a curious half-smile.

  ‘Not so, Commius. My scouts were at work throughout the night. While we kept the Romans busy on the plain, my cleverest and quietest riders probed the entire circuit of the Roman defences undetected. And even as we pulled back from the attack during the night, they delivered to me the path of our victory. For our next attack will be the last. We will cut through and save our brothers on the hill and bring ruin to Caesar.’

  ‘How?’ Lucterius asked hungrily, all need for sleep suddenly forgotten.

  ‘Their system has a weakness. The inner circuit is an unbroken line, following the rivers along the valleys and supported by the water trench at the western end. The outer line, however, is not as strong as it appears from here. While the view from our camp makes it appear unbroken, there is one place where the system peters out.’

  ‘That seems suspiciously unlikely,’ Commius sneered.

  ‘Nonetheless, the camp at Mons Rea is on the southern slope of the hill, overlooking the oppidum, with the inner circuit stretching to both sides. However, the outer circuit climbs the slope of the hill at both sides, but does not meet. The terrain at the top of Mons Rea is rocky. They could not put a ditch through it without many weeks’ work, driving in stakes is near impossible, and there is not enough earth on the ground to form a bank. Their only option would have been to encircle the entire hill, which would have almost doubled their circuit distance. And so the outer wall converges on the camp, just like the inner one. There is our weak spot.’

  Commius blinked in surprise. ‘Our weak spot is a Roman camp occupied by two legions!’

  ‘But one camp. No trench, wall, tower and spike defences. Just a normal camp rampart. We break into that camp and take it and we have a defendable passage through the whole system to unite with the trapped army.’

  ‘I doubt the Romans will simply let us walk in. They will send everyone they have to defend it.’

  ‘They will not, Commius. For just before noon tomorrow you and Lucterius and the other solid cavalry commanders will lead the cavalry out onto the plain in a threatening manner, supported by a portion of the infantry. You will pose such a threat that the Romans will be forced to bolster the walls there against you.’

  ‘While you…?’

  Vergasillaunus smiled. ‘As soon as night falls tonight I will take thirty thousand men - the strongest and swiftest we have, selected by their own leaders - and we will head west and then north. By the approach of dawn we will be in position behind the peak of Mons Rea. We will then spend the morning recovering and preparing and as soon as the Romans commit against you on the plain at noon, we will assault the Mons Rea camp from an unexpected direction. My cousin will, of course, see what is happening. He will commit as soon as we do, possibly against the plains walls, in which case you will aid them there, or against the camp with us. Either way, by the setting of the sun tomorrow we will secure a breach in the walls and unite the armies. Then Caesar cannot hope to hold us. We will wipe his army from the land.’

  Lucterius felt his heart beating faster. It was a sound plan; a good plan. And if it worked, this would be it. The end of the war and the end of Caesar.

  * * * * *

  Cavarinos stood at the oppidum wall, looking over the Romans as they worked to repair and replenish their defensive system, past that to the piles of dead heaped on the plain and to the hill beyond where the relief army were encamped, and yet not really seeing any of it.

  The Fortuna pendant at his throat seemed to burn cold now all the time, as if taunting him, or perhaps cursing him. His hand went to the leather pouch at his belt, which held the broken, spent slate tablet of Ogmios’ curse, once more wrapped snugly. In a seemingly miraculous fashion - curse the Roman goddess at his throat - the only people to have seen what happened down by the walls had fallen to Roman missiles before they could flee. No one here therefore was aware that the curse had been used - and to what dreadful effect.

  And he would have to keep it that way.

  He had revealed the curse to the leaders of the army so many weeks ago back in Gergovia and without it there would have been a revolt in which the king would have lost most of his forces. Instead, Cavarinos had shown them the tablet, bolstering their courage, and drawing them back to the fold. They followed Vercingetorix largely in the ridiculous belief that the Gods were with them. To show them the broken tablet would be to put the entire army’s future at risk. And, of course, there would be some rather awkward explaining to do, also.

  Strangely, apart from a somewhat unsavoury dream during the three hours’ troubled post-dawn sleep he’d managed, in which his parents had beaten him to death for what he had done and demanded that he seek out and destroy Fronto, he had discovered that he felt absolutely nothing over his brother’s death. No guilt. No shame. Not even a jolt of sadness. But no joy or satisfaction either. Just a sense of sudden freedom, half-swallowed by a hollow emptiness. It had taken deep thinking to come to the conclusion that he had probably done the army and the tribes a great service in his fratricidal deed. It had come as a curious epiphany, as well, to discover that he prized the survival of one of the enemy over his own brother, and he was still unsure as to whether he had called down the curse primarily in order to kill Critognatos or to save Fronto. It was something he wasn’t quite ready to come to terms with. Indeed, until he looked into Fronto’s eyes across the battlefield, he could not be sure whether he would avenge his brother and settle the shades of his parents, or put friendship and the potential future of a peaceful Gaul ahead of such sick trivia.

  ‘He died as he lived,’ a voice said from behind, startling him. He turned to see Vercingetorix standing behind him, holding out a wooden platter with a few stringy fragments of meat and a chunk of bread that had clearly seen better days.’

  ‘Knee deep in blood and filth, you mean?’ Cavarinos said harshly and uncharitably.

  ‘A warrior’s death. They say that even as we pulled
out and back to the oppidum, Critognatos and his cadre of warriors saw a small Roman sortie and decided to refuse them their victory. I gather that you were among that crowd, and it seems a gods’ gift that you survived. I am grateful for it, though… I will have need of your cunning these coming days. Now eat. There is not much, but we must all keep our strength up as best we can. We may not have broken out yet, but my cousin will not leave us languishing for long. Rest assured he will already have another plan, and we must be ready to follow along when he shows himself to us.

  ‘I am sick of war.’

  The king gave him an odd look, but recovered quickly into an understanding smile. ‘None of us want to fight forever, Cavarinos. But it will end soon. And you know as well as I that this is about more than just throwing Caesar out of our lands. That is just the catalyst that will change everything. We are at last one nation under one man, and I will not let that collapse when the Romans are gone. If we want to take our place in the world in the manner of a Rome or Aegyptus or Parthia, we must centralise and become a power. The druids brought us here, though they now sit back in their nemetons and watch us carry out the war. It was they who began everything and they have been the glue that bound the tribes together. But now we are whole and it is time they relinquished their hold over our people. Rome has made us into Gaul, and I will continue their good work in their absence.’

  ‘It is a glorious dream,’ Cavarinos sighed.

  ‘It is no dream. We are on the cusp, my friend. The next few days will see this war at an end. I can feel it in my blood. And then we must begin the true work of building a nation. Gergovia will always be my home and our greatest fortress, but the Aedui are at the heart of the peoples and Bibracte must be our capital. We must have a senate like Rome, even if I am to be king. The tribes must all have a voice, but they must combine to become a choir with one song, the druids serving the people as Rome’s priests do, rather than guiding them. I need men like you in that senate, Cavarinos. My cousin is a good warrior and a great general, but you are a man with deeper intellect. You will lead the Arverni when I lead Gaul.’