Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis
Page 25
In apparent response to whatever information they had received from the officer, the dozen figures separated as they entered the depot. Three cut left and three right, moving methodically to the two other side gates where they no doubt found and dispatched more guards, though Cavarinos could not see the action from his poor vantage point. Then, as the groups of three re-emerged, they moved into selected buildings.
The other six figures made straight across the square to what had once been a luxurious house belonging to Gergovia’s resident druid. Now, a red flag adorned with the ubiquitous golden eagle and SPQR sigil hung from the upstairs window, denoting the presence of Rome. With the boldness of the invincible, the six cloaked figures entered the building and closed the door behind them.
Cavarinos held his breath for a long moment, staring into the now-empty compound. Despite not having committed himself to either side in this small engagement, he felt certain he needed to know more about what was happening here. It smacked heavily of all the clandestine manoeuvring that had occurred in the two years leading up to the revolt.
He could move now. The square was empty. Six had moved into the largest building and the others were scattered among the other structures, but all were inside. To move could cause him trouble if one of them happened to emerge once more as he crossed the open. Would being Arverni save him from their wrath? Somehow he suspected not, even if he’d looked the part. And he didn’t. He was still clean-shaven, his hair pulled back behind him. He wore Gallic clothing, but his serpent arm-ring and noble’s torc had gone, and at his neck he wore a figurine of a Roman God. Somehow he knew his appearance would be held against him no matter what he said.
Still, the square was empty and precious time was passing as he deliberated.
His heart in his throat and thumping a speedy tempo, Cavarinos slipped out of the shadows and loped quietly across to the gate, trying not to pay too close attention to the three corpses that lay there. His eyes darting back and forth between the various doors, he settled on the big house ahead. Clearly that was their objective, the rest simply keeping the garrison out of things.
No one emerged, and no faces appeared at the windows as he ran quietly on soft boots, shushing gravel despite his care, and he dived into the shadows at the far side, next to Vercingetorix’s house. As he stood in the shade, heaving in silent breaths, two figures stepped out of the side buildings, perhaps having heard movement. Both peered intently around the square, shared a look, and then moved out, searching the area swiftly.
But they were not Arverni, for they moved with unfamiliarity around the square, peering into places where Cavarinos knew a man couldn’t hide. Who were they if not Arverni?
Cavarinos was a child of this tribe, and he knew Gergovia like he knew the lines on his hand. Staying in the shadows, he moved to the rear of Vercingetorix’s house, ducked past the animal shed and turned right, running along the back of the buildings, silent on the turf. The Roman compound perimeter had made use of the boundary wall of the house’s rear field, but had left open space behind the buildings themselves, just as he’d assumed. Now easily safe from the prying eyes of the pair in the square, he passed the rear of three houses and arrived at the druid’s two-storey residence.
His fears were confirmed by the screaming of a man within, and he could hear curses and angry imprecations in Latin. Who was this man? Not the prefect, for he worked out of Vercingetorix’s house and was apparently inspecting the oppidum’s granaries this morning. This was another Roman, and important enough to have drawn the attentions of the dozen cloaked killers.
With the ease of a man familiar with every wall and window, Cavarinos closed on the house’s rear wall and climbed up to the store shed that was built against it. Quickly he peered round it, aware that anyone looking out of the rear window of the house might see him. Fortunately, no one seemed to be manning that window and on agile toes, Cavarinos crept up to it and crouched, rising to peer through the bottom corner.
He was not shocked by what he saw. Sickened a little, but not shocked. The Roman was clearly a very senior officer. He wore the same uniform – and had similar armour hanging on the wall – to that Cavarinos remembered Fronto wearing and so this, he assumed, was another legion commander. A legate, he remembered. The man was already agonised and ruined. In this state most men would already be begging for death, so Cavarinos could only admire the Roman’s tenacity, as the haughty face turned on the cloaked figure.
‘Gaius Antistius Reginus of the Fifteenth, bound for Rome.’
‘Stop saying that,’ snarled the leader with the hoarse voice and smashed a shattered exquisite Roman glass into the man’s cheek, grinding it into the flesh and lacerating his face. Reginus whimpered, and yet didn’t scream.
‘I will not tell you anything,’ he panted painfully. ‘The convoy will not fall into the hands of filthy rebels!’
Convoy? Interesting. Cavarinos frowned as the torturing came to an abrupt halt. The leader paused and despite the mask Cavarinos knew he was frowning. Reaching up, the man pulled back the hood and slowly removed his mask. The face beneath was like chopped meat and even Cavarinos found himself recoiling for a moment. Reginus looked as though he might retch, even in his own current situation.
‘Convoy?’ the ruin-faced man murmured in confusion.
‘Yes,’ Reginus answered in equal perplexity. ‘Caesar’s convoy. That’s what you’re wanting, yes?’
‘I care not for some convoy of Rome,’ spat the hideous leader. ‘Perhaps I should have made myself clearer at the outset? I am hunting Esus – the saviour of the peoples. It is the Arverni king I seek. Tell me where I can find Vercingetorix.’
Reginus boggled for a moment, and then started to laugh.
‘Is that what this is all about? You should have been clearer to begin with. His fate is common knowledge.’
The cloaked leader, clearly extremely irritated, smacked the Roman with the back of his hand. ‘This is not the case. I have interrogated every Roman officer I can find, and no one knows. The king was taken prisoner by Caesar, but some think he is in Samarobriva. Some in Rome. Others think he is in a secure, hidden place, and others say he is already dead. No one has been able to tell me with any certainty.’
‘You have been asking the wrong men, Gaul. I will happily tell you with clarity and certainty where your former king is. He is forever beyond your reach, in the carcer of Rome, on the slope of the Capitol. He languishes in the most secure place in the Roman world where he will stay, sleeping in his own waste, until the day his execution is ordered, and then he will be killed.’
Another of the figures – a woman, Cavarinos realised in surprise – cut in. ‘When will that be?’
Reginus shrugged. ‘Who knows? A year. Two?’ He is too valuable to kill offhand. Caesar will have a triumph in Rome once he has returned for his consulship, and Vercingetorix will be dragged around the city in chains for the delight of the crowd before any execution is ordered.’
The woman turned to her leader. ‘We still have time, Molacos,’ her mask-muffled voice announced.
The meat-faced leader turned angrily on the woman and slapped her, despite the mask covering her face. ‘No true names, Catubodua. Are you a fool?’
The woman snarled in reply. ‘There is no one to hear but a dead Roman.’ Even as Molacos rounded on her again, she lanced out with a sword and drove it through Reginus’ eye and deep into his brain, killing him instantly.
‘That was foolish,’ Molacos muttered.
‘He told us what we wanted and now your name is a secret once more.’
The giant of a man who had killed the optio outside leaned down and spoke, the mask making his voice oddly hollow. ‘How do we get to Rome?’
Molacos sighed and cleaned his blade on the dead legate’s tunic before sheathing it. ‘Lucterius has a sympathetic Ruteni trader in Massilia who can arrange passage for us. Come, Mogont. Gather the others from the barracks. We have a destination at last. Massilia, then Rome.’
But more important was what he had learned of their true identity and their goal.
For he knew Molacos…
The hunter that was Lucterius’ pet and who Cavarinos had believed to have fallen at Alesia. It seemed he had survived, at least in ruined form. As the men disappeared from the house out into the square, joining up with their fellows, the Arvernian prince rose from his crouch by the window, torn by choices. It should be none of his business. And yet it was. It really was.
And, being his business, and the twelve of them having stated an intention to find, and presumably free, his cousin, the great Arverni king, he should by rights be throwing in his lot with them. But the practical man that was Cavarinos, who knew that Gaul was a Roman thing now, and that nothing would halt that tide, could see only extended violence and horror in dragging out the revolution. It would be better if Vercingetorix had been killed at Alesia. Better for him. Better for the tribes. Better for everyone.
Massilia.
Fronto was in Massilia. Now why did that leap to mind?
He knew the answer to that question at once. Because despite the fact that Cavarinos was a ghost, drifting in the aether, disconnected from both his own people and the conquerors, Fronto remained the only person whose opinion he felt he could count upon. The Roman had spoken sense throughout the war and had even been one to advocate a peaceful solution to save the tribes. Fronto would know what to do.
Another thought occurred to him, too. Molacos hated Romans more than anyone Cavarinos had ever met. More even than Vercingetorix. And Fronto had gone to become a wine merchant in Massilia. What were the chances of Molacos and his psychotic, vengeful group passing through that great port without hearing tell of the former companion of Caesar’s who lived there. And when that happened, Cavarinos wouldn’t give two copper coins for Fronto’s chances.
Still undecided about his views on Molacos’ end goal, he at least was now resolved on one thing: he had to beat the cloaked ‘gods’ to Massilia and warn Fronto. Then he could seek Fronto’s counsel on other matters, once the former legate had moved to a place of safety and avoided the wrath of ‘Taranis’.
Massilia, then. At all speed.
Chapter Twelve
THE officers of Caesar's senior staff sat in a semicircle facing the general across his littered desk. No one here ranked lower than a legate, and Varus wondered at the lack of attendance from the usual bulk of officers - senior tribunes with vexillatory commands, auxiliary prefects, cavalry prefects, and the usual extras such as the engineering genius Mamurra. It seemed that only the most high-ranking had been required to attend.
He turned to see Brutus looking back at him with the same curiosity burning in his eyes, and smiled. These days, with the army generally commanded by serious, career-minded men with little or no sense of humour, Brutus' companionship for the season had been gods-sent. Most of the old hands were gone now one way or another, and that camaraderie from the early days of the campaign was notably absent these days. Still, the war was almost finished with, and soon they would all be adjusting to civilian life, their great patron no longer needing their talents in the field.
The brief campaign against the Bellovaci had felt like proper warfare, of course, but in truth it was a small thing in comparison to the gargantuan field battles and sieges in which the army had been involved in previous years. The death toll against the Bellovaci had been pleasantly low, and the army still felt more relaxed than it had for years, certain that this was the last fight. The Gauls seemed to be suppressed, and the Belgae now had collapsed beneath the Roman boot.
Indeed, in the two weeks that followed the end of that rebellion, Caesar and his army had moved into the Atrebates' land, driven by the seeking of revenge on the traitor Commius, and then on into the territory of the Eburones who had so troubled Rome over the past few years. Both tribes had been cowed and feeble, yet both had been stripped of all remaining assets by the general.
Varus and Brutus had talked long about that in the privacy of his tent.
And now the army was back at the south-western edge of Belgae lands.
The general finished scratching some list on a sheet of vellum and straightened, performing a quick head-count with his piercing gaze. Seemingly happy with the result, he rubbed his temple for a moment and then cleared his throat.
'The time has come to separate the army once more,' the general said. 'The north is, in my opinion - and in that of those others I have consulted - settled. There is almost no chance of a future rising here. The northern Gallic tribes are depopulated and impoverished and in no condition to cause trouble, and now the Belgae are in the same position. Indeed, there are few areas of the land that can still raise a warband, let alone an army, and so the legions can now be reassigned appropriately.'
Peaceful postings? Varus frowned. That was not the way of Rome. Legions were raised for wars and disbanded at their conclusion. Some were occasionally kept on, paid for by their patron, when other areas were looking troublesome or when that patron expected to be assigned to a difficult province, or even if the senate decided they were of continued use, but most were disbanded when they were no longer needed. And certainly an army this size - a size rarely fielded in the history of Rome - would not be kept mobilized, considering the fact that Caesar would soon be moving into his consular role and staying in Rome for a while.
'The Treveri are still something of a threat,' the general went on. 'Despite repeated campaigns against them over the years, we have generally granted clemency in the aftermath and the dolts ever take advantage of that to raise trouble again as soon as the opportunity occurs. It is time to drive the fight and the spirit from them for good, to put them in the same position as their fellow Gauls.'
So not all peace, then...
'Labienus, you are my most able vexillatory commander, your skills have been proved time and again. You, I charge with the final pacification of the Treveri. They border the Germanic tribes, who continue to threaten and stir up unrest with people like Commius, and you are also authorised, if information is forthcoming, to deal with that particular traitorous vermin. Take the Seventh legion,' a quick nod there to Plancus, the Seventh's legate, who sat close by, 'who are one of the most experienced and strongest of my legions both in spirit and on parchment. You will have to take a slightly circuitous route and pass by Agedincum, where you will also collect the First. They may only have been with this army for a short time, but they are a consular legion who cut their teeth years ago under Pompey. They will be returning to their former role at the end of the year but until then, with two veteran legions at your disposal, you should encounter no trouble against the Treveri.'
Varus peered at Labienus, sitting with his helmet on his lap, his hair so much greyer than he remembered it being when they had first met eight years ago. Labienus was nodding professionally.
'Divide all spoils, including slaves. One half will be sent via the Rhodanus valley to Massilia. The rest will be divided among the men as you deem fit. I shall eagerly await news of your success.'
Labienus nodded again and sat quietly.
'Fabius.'
The legate straightened at the sound of his name.
'My latest reports suggest that the other most troublesome area is in the west and the southwest.'
Fabius frowned. 'Beg your pardon, general, but isn't Caninius already there with the Fifth and the Fifteenth?'
Caesar nodded and steepled his fingers. 'He is, but the scale of that region is rather impressive. There are something in the region of fifteen tribes that occupy the lands between the Pyrene mountains and the Liger River and border the western sea. And many of those tribes were only peripherally involved in the rising last year, so they are more populous than others. Given that Caninius has only two legions, one being freshly-raised last year and still green in many ways, and the other being a legion often kept in reserve, it seems sensible to me to send extra men to make sure the region is stable.'
Fabius nodded his understanding.
'You will take the Eighth and Roscius' Ninth,' another nod to Roscius, 'two of my most veteran legions - and join with Caninius at his base of Noviodunum. By autumn I want to sleep soundly knowing that the west and the south are either happily working towards the goal of a Gallo-Roman future or suppressed enough that they neither would nor could consider rising against us. I am hopeful for a peaceful, positive solution, but with four legions and auxiliary support you will, of course, impose peace and stability at the end of a gladius if it is required.'
Another nod.
'Varus?'
The cavalry commander sat up a little and concentrated.
'You will take a wing of the cavalry and join Fabius in the west. The army will be moving quick and light, resupplying at the various stations on the way, and he may have need of fast-moving, roving cavalry support, particularly given the hilly terrain that I understand is the norm in the southwest.'
Varus nodded.
So that was it. More suppression of tribes. At least the southwest was new territory for Varus, and he would see different terrain and hear different tongues. It was odd that he had become so used to the north and east of Gaul over the years that even with no grasp of the native language and no concerted attempt to learn it, he had begun to recognise words and the roots of names. He could already remember a dozen of their gods and could identify many tribes from their symbols and colours. The Aquitani and their neighbours were - Crassus had once informed him - as far removed from the rest of the Gauls as a Sicilian was from a Roman. And Varus remembered once trying to follow the lyrics of a song sung by a Sicilian in a tavern and fathoming perhaps one word in three through the thick accent and strange idioms.