The information they had received from the Pictone prince had placed the enemy army at the chief oppidum of the Lemovices, where the two armies were to combine. The Roman force had arrived at the place to discover that the combined forces of the Gallic rebels had moved on south the previous day. Helpful locals there had vouchsafed that the enemy was bound for the Cadurci fortress of Uxellodunon and, cresting the rise this morning, it appeared that the intelligence had been correct.
For Uxellodunon – and gods, but it was another Alesia – showed every sign of full military occupation. The walls, high above the rocky cliffs, were packed with men. Not just sparsely like the poor bastards Varus had seen in the risings early this year, but packed. And with them were standards of many shapes. The initial forays by the scouts to ascertain the precise lie of the land had come under missile attack from the walls and the strength of that scuffle showed that the enemy were not only numerous and belligerent, but were also well supplied. A tough proposition.
Varus found himself almost considering a drastic course of action. It would be easier to face the enemy under almost any other circumstance. If the army retreated ten miles or so, perhaps the Gauls would quit this place and move on Narbonensis. Then perhaps the Romans would catch them in open terrain and could make an easier job of it. But this place was only a hundred and fifty miles from Narbo itself, and a mere fifty or sixty from the border and the first peaceful Roman settlement. To let them go now was to place Roman civilians in grave danger. Besides, the enemy seemed to be quite comfortable here, so there was no guarantee they would move on quickly. After all, if they were desperate to press on south they could have done so ahead of the legions, even if only just. He brushed aside the unpleasant thought that the enemy were simply biding their time. Behind him the cavalry and legions were massing, awaiting their orders.
Caninius looked extremely unimpressed. The poor sod had just come from trying to break a siege against superior numbers, via a battle that had almost gone badly for him and now to an oppidum that looked more or less unassailable.
‘What else can we do?’ the legate sighed. ‘Settle in for a siege. The scouts have identified three suitable strong points. I’ll split the legions into three groups with six or seven cohorts apiece and you can assign the cavalry to them appropriately. Then at least we can be sure we have them trapped while we consider the next move.’
Varus chewed his lip. ‘There are not enough of us to take that place, Caninius, and if they’re as well-stocked as they seem, we could be here for anything up to a year. Our next move might be to send to Caesar for reinforcements.’
Caninius curled a lip at the thought of having to ask for aid. Labienus had never had to ask for help, and it appeared that Caesar had already sent Fabius to his aid once, assuming he couldn’t cope with just two legions. ‘No. Not yet. We have them hemmed in. Fabius will come soon. Maybe you could send a group of riders and urge him to move at speed?’
Varus peered at Alesia’s echo and nodded. The last thing he wanted to experience was a repeat of that bloodbath. Gods, let Fabius be quick.
Chapter Thirteen
MOLACOS of the Cadurci sat astride his horse and peered down at the wide valley, wondering if there was some other route they could have taken. But he knew there wasn’t, and no matter how much time Lucterius thought he could buy, Molacos knew that time was running short. His task had already taken far longer than they’d expected, and it would still take some time to get to Rome, extricate the king and return him to his people. Only then, with Vercingetorix at the head of the new rebellion could they even hope to bind all of the tribes together and achieve what they had failed last year.
Since Alesia the surviving nobles of all the tribes had come to the inevitable conclusion that if they had not argued and dallied, and had simply thrown all their strength behind the Arverni king at the beginning, Caesar’s head would now be mouldering on a spike and the land would be free. Well when the next rising came, they would fight. Even now many were busy causing just enough trouble to keep Caesar’s eyes on the north and away from Lucterius and his gathering forces, or the small select band of hunters and killers tasked with returning the king to his place.
Molacos raked his scalp and punched his palm every time he was alone, knowing that his delays in finding anyone who could reveal Vercingetorix’s actual location and situation may well already have caused a failure in the plan. By now they had all been expecting he and his killer gods to be making for Uxellodunon with the king in tow, to combine with the growing army. Gaul was underpopulated and starving, and no one was labouring under the impression that this would be as easy as last year. But it was their last chance. If they gathered the army and put the king at its head everyone, young and old, man and woman, would grab a sickle or spear and throw their every ounce of will and strength into the fight.
But if it went wrong or they lost, there would never be another chance. Rome would have won.
It was a desperate thing.
His gaze raked the occupants of the wide Rhodanus valley.
More carts and wagons than he might have thought existed. It was quite unbelievable, really. The convoy stretched out of sight to both left and right, still filing around a distant bend in the valley to the north and gradually rolling out of view to the south, bound for Massilia. And it was well guarded. At least a legion, by his now expert estimate, lined the convoy as it rumbled on, along with cursed Remi and their allies riding along the sides.
He could see a small group of officers on horses sitting still not far from his position, apparently deep in discussion with a scout. It was imperative that Molacos and his men get to Massilia and board their friendly boat as soon as possible. Waiting for that monstrous column to pass would take forever, and they would then be in the port, blocking things up and making life difficult for Molacos and his people.
The twelve of them had first moved to cross the high ground some forty miles west of here, but it had quickly become apparent that since the legion that had guarded the border had been reassigned, the clever man running the Roman provincial garrison had carefully utilised his small number of soldiers in setting up guard posts and fortlets all along the edge of Roman territory. Until they’d reached the Rhodanus, Molacos had found no place where they could possibly have passed towards Massilia unobserved.
And now, moving into Roman lands, they had to rely on stealth and not violence, lest they fail through their own conspicuousness. The only place they could pass the Roman border unnoticed would be the Rhodanus, since the quantity of traffic up and down the wide valley on any single day was vast and multi-national. Twelve folk of the tribes could easily lose themselves in the endless mercantile traffic.
But not today. Damn the Fates and the gods and the shit-eating Romans for making the day he reached the border the same as Caesar’s cursed column. The coming day or two would be a hell of difficulties, or yet more impossible delays.
‘What now?’ asked a hoarse voice made eerie by mask and hood.
He looked back at the speaker, Cernunnos – one of the few of his group to whom he would consider deferring. Each and every one was a killer and a master of the art, though each was driven by their own goals, from Molacos’ own devotion to his master Lucterius, through Catubodua of the Lemovices, fighting here to avenge her husband King Sedullos who had died at Alesia, and to Belisama and Belenos, the crazed twins who had seen their father tortured to death for information. But apart from himself, the only one who was here purely with the goal of returning Vercingetorix to his place was Cernunnos, a respected master druid who had once led the Arverni priests, seers and druids in their devotions. He would do nothing were it not for the greater good.
‘We have no time to seek another way, even if there was one. It has to be the Rhodanus. If we wait for this convoy we will be a further day behind, plus any extra days they cost us by blocking up the port on their way to Rome. Unless we can get ahead of them some way…’
‘We could kill the
m all,’ interjected Mogont, the giant. ‘Take the convoy, free the slaves and then stroll into Massilia?’
Molacos turned on the big man. Mogont was generally less belligerent than some of the others though he had his own score to settle, having been gelded by some arsehole Roman officer after killing his horse. But that kind of talk was plainly stupid. Twelve men and women against a legion?
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘I didn’t mean alone. I meant with them.’
Confused, Molacos followed the giant’s pointing finger and blinked in surprise.
On the hills at the far side of the valley a large force was mobilizing, from here looking like swarming insects. ‘Who..?’
‘They are the Helvii,’ Cernunnos said quietly in his strange, ghostly voice.
‘There is no possible way you can see a standard from here,’ Molacos growled.
‘I see many things far beyond the realm of your eyes. They are Helvii.’
Molacos opened his mouth to argue, but he had rarely experienced a druid who was wrong when he made such a pronouncement. They had the ears of the gods and on occasion spoke with their tongues. He felt a faint shudder run up his spine.
‘But the Helvii are Rome’s allies.’
Cernunnos turned to him slowly. ‘Enough gold and slaves to buy a place among the gods can turn the most loyal of heads, Taranis. And these are Helvii lands. See how they have chosen a part of the valley where the river limits their movement, there are no settlements to get in the way, the slopes are shallow enough for a cavalry charge and the wagons have been strung out in single file due to the depth of the undergrowth, stretching the Roman army to its limit. There are no more than two thousand Helvii there at most. Maybe as little as a thousand. They could not hope to destroy a legion in the field, but here they can hit the army quick and hard at a weak point and cut the column in two. Note also how they have waited until the Roman commanders are close so they can cause the maximum chaos by killing the leaders first. They may lose, but they have at least a reasonable chance of success if the Helvian leader can maintain enough control throughout the fight.’
Molacos boggled. It was just as Cernunnos said. And if they joined in, they could take the column. Free the slaves! Retrieve the spoils. Fund and man the army…
He shook his head angrily. He was being tempted and distracted just as the Helvii had been. He could not afford to be side-tracked from his task, even for this. Vercingetorix was his goal, and the king was worth ten of these columns when it came to uniting the tribes.
‘It is too dangerous. Roman commanders are often clever beyond reason. There is a chance this column will fall to the Helvii, but you and I, Cernunnos, we know that there is more chance they will be broken by some unexpected Roman manoeuvre. We cannot afford to throw in our lot with these traitorous Roman pets.’
‘So what do we do, then?’ hulking Mogont asked.
‘We use the Helvii. It is not as though we sell out our own, since the Helvii are a Roman tribe now.’
‘You don’t mean…’
‘That is exactly what I mean.’ He straightened, turned and gestured for the other eleven to close around him. ‘Cloaks and masks off and stowed. We are loyal Allobroges now, serving Rome and living in their province. I will remain masked and cloaked at the back – my face is too recognisable and memorable. Cernunnos can lead and do the talking in my place. No moves against the Romans, and watch your tongues. If you speak their language make sure not to react poorly to anything they say.’
He turned to Cernunnos as, uncertain and unhappy, his men and women began to remove their god-cloaks and ritual masks. ‘You know what to do?’
The druid nodded. ‘I have plenty of experience in tricking the Romans and feeding them lies. As soon as we crest the hill, everyone make as much noise as you can as though trying to attract their attention. As we descend, stay a little back. Catubodua, you come out front with me and be my wife. The rest of you keep out of the way and look respectful.’
Without waiting for their comments or agreement, recognising the fact that the Helvian force across the river was almost ready to act, he kicked his horse and broke into a run, racing for the crest and the slope down into the valley. Molacos kept himself safely among the crowd behind as they joined him, dashing down the hill and making directly for the officers.
The group began to shout warnings, those who had no grasp of Latin whooping instead. The reaction from the Romans was immediate and Molacos congratulated himself – they were sharp and quick, these officers. The fight would have gone badly for the Helvii. Before the dozen riders were even closing on them, the officers were protected by a shieldwall of legionaries in three files with spears out in their standard anti-cavalry move. Archers appeared as if from nowhere, arrows nocked and strings pulled taut, and Remi riders were gathering in groups, just in case. The wagons rolled on behind them.
‘Tribune!’ shouted Cernunnos as they rode closer. ‘Tribune!’
It was a good guess. Legions usually had a legate or even a more senior officer with them, but even a cohort on the move would have a tribune with them, and so there would be at least one among the officers.
Cernunnos and Catubodua slowed, the former holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. One of the Romans gave a gesture and the shieldwall opened enough to let him step his horse forward. The twelve riders reined in, the ‘couple’ out front only ten paces from the Roman, the rest gathered in a group further back.
‘What is your business?’ asked the Roman. Molacos took in his youthful good looks, light and agile physique, sharp, clear eyes, but most of all, the red belt knotted across his cuirass, denoting his position as some sort of general.
‘Your column is in grave danger, sir. Helvii gather on the far slope in large numbers.’
Molacos watched with fascination as the Roman seemed to study the druid, his gaze digging deep into Cernunnos’ eyes. After a few heartbeats he straightened.
‘Tribune? Prefect? Halt the column and have the entire legion form up in strength on the eastern side of the convoy. Have the wagons begin to double up, every other one pulling alongside to tighten the line and give us manoeuvring room. Send word to the rear to bring up the reserves on the far side of the valley and have all the missile troops mount the wagons for extra range. Every sixth wagon contains a scorpion bolt thrower, so have them all loaded and manned ready too.’
An older officer looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Sir?’
‘Do it.’
‘The outriders have found nothing, sir. These Gauls could be lying… leading us into a trap.’
The general turned a hard look on him. ‘This man is speaking the truth. Follow my orders or by Juno I will find someone to replace you.’ As the tribune trotted off, the officer gestured to another rider – a Remi by the look of it.
‘Take three men and get a good look at these Helvii. Confirm what looks to be their intention and come straight back.’
As they moved off and the officer gestured for the shieldwall to disperse to their normal assigned place, he nodded to Cernunnos. ‘I must thank you for your timely intervention. I have, I confess, been expecting some sort of attack throughout the length of the Rhodanus valley, though I was beginning to feel safe now, in the shadow of Rome.’
‘Will you move against them?’
The officer shook his head. ‘If they come, we are now ready and we’ll fight them off. But I don’t think they will come. The Helvii have too much to lose. If they think we are ready for them they will call off their attack and disperse. I will give you nine coins to one that you have saved us a fight altogether today.’ He smiled. ‘Though I fear you will be in danger from reprisals. They may well be watching you speaking to me. Where are you bound?’
‘Massilia, sir,’ Cernunnos answered easily. ‘My wife and I have property there as well as back in Allobroge lands. I have a modest concern in the city trading in wine.’
The officer brightened. ‘How marvellous. You may be acq
uainted with a friend of mine. Fronto, the former legate of the Tenth also trades in wine in Massilia.’ The man chuckled and failed in his jollity to notice a moment of dark recognition in the druid’s eyes at the name. ‘For your safety you will, surely, allow my column to accompany you to the city? My name is Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, pro-tem commander of the Twelfth Legion.’
Chapter Fourteen
CAVARINOS felt his spirits sink as he looked ahead through the open gate of Alba. Like all the Romanised settlements of the Roman province, this city of the Helvii was something of an odd mix. Still boasting a traditional wall in the form of the old oppida, the interior had obviously been completely redesigned at some stage following the tribe’s inclusion within Rome’s ever increasing territory. The grid of streets was a standard Roman form Cavarinos had seen before on visits to Narbo and other large ‘Gallo-Roman’ towns. And the Helvii there were still wearing trousers as they had centuries ago, but more often than not with a Roman style tunic above. There were as many clean-shaven faces as moustached or bearded.
But it was not the oddness of the cultural clash that had plunged his mood into darkness. That was the fault of the commotion. In the main street leading from the gate, perhaps two dozen locals were arguing in a rather urgent, panicked manner. And among their number, at the centre, sat a cart. Though he could not pick out the detail at this distance, the bundle on the cart was wrapped in a red cloak, and that identified it better than anything. As if that was not bad enough, between the occasional moving of the men’s’ legs, he could see the dark pool that had formed beneath the cart.
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 29
