Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis

by S. J. A. Turney

  Cavarinos raised his brow in interest.

  ‘Stay with us. I have good men here. And a prince of the Remi is close to my family. You seem to be a man with no place. Why move again?’

  Cavarinos shrugged and drained his glass.

  ‘I have no intention of being tied up in a fresh war, so the north is lost to me. But I am not a Roman, Fronto. I am Arverni. There is somewhere out there for me, but Massilia is not it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yet I have no intention of letting a dozen maniacs rekindle a dead rebellion. These Sons of Taranis need to be stopped, so I will stay for now.’

  He smiled. ‘Now pour me another glass of that excellent Alban before we go and join your lovely wife while I catch you up on what I know is happening in the north and you fill in the blanks for me.’

  * * * * *

  Fronto pointed angrily at the slave girl. ‘I don’t give a hair from Jove’s left bollock what her intentions were, I distinctly and very clearly said I did not want her touching my swords!’

  Lucilia reached out with a calming hand and patted him on the arm. ‘I gave her permission, Marcus. She has been complaining for weeks that you don’t take care of them and that there are spots of rust on the blades.’

  Fronto glared in exasperation. ‘You do realise that means that she’s been unsheathing them when you aren’t looking anyway?’

  ‘You of all people should know better than to let your kit get rusty, Marcus. You may not intend to join Caesar again, but that’s no reason to let things go to ruin.’

  His glare darkened. ‘Don’t change the bloody subject!’ He turned to Andala who, he noted, did not look remotely cowed and showed not a breath of remorse. In fact, she looked thoroughly defiant and even slightly angry. By gods sometimes she actually reminded him of Lucilia. Could there be shared blood between the Belgae and the Lucilii?

  ‘Masgava, would you be good enough to take all three of my gladii and my daggers and put them in a locked box?’

  ‘They’ll be no use there if you get in trouble,’ the big man rumbled.

  ‘For the love of Jove is there no one in this household who actually has any intention of doing what I ask?’ Fronto bellowed in vexation.

  ‘Not if what you ask is not in your best interests,’ Masgava replied calmly.

  Fronto glared at the three of them, feeling a little like a retiarius with a torn net and a broken trident facing three armed opponents in the arena. He spun and stomped angrily across the room to where Cavarinos stood peering at a large map of the republic on the wall.

  ‘You see the sort of crap I have to put up with?’

  Cavarinos turned with an indulgent smile. ‘Roman women, I fear, are not that different from Arverni ones. Accept defeat gracefully, Fronto, and rally your men for future battles.’

  Fronto glared at him, and Cavarinos laughed, pointing at the map. ‘Your people call our tribes Gallia, correct?’

  Fronto nodded, still irritated.

  ‘Then I think your map makers have been toying with you. Look at this place.’

  Fronto peered at where he was pointing, out to the east, past the border of the Republic in Anatolia. ‘Galatia?’

  Cavarinos nodded, and Fronto smiled. ‘That is another land, ruled by a king called Deiotarus. He’s a client king of Rome, and they’re strong allies of ours.’

  ‘But the name?’

  Fronto nodded. ‘I am given to understand that they are related to your tribes, going back a number of centuries. Pompey used to say they have their own Gaulish language. Probably not unlike yours, I imagine.’

  Cavarinos frowned and tapped his lip. ‘I am interested in Galatia. It is on the other side of the world, yet you say it is a land of my people with its own king? Independent?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Cavarinos nodded. ‘I think, then, it is for Galatia that I am bound when this is over.’

  The room’s five occupants turned in the silence that followed, listening to the sound of several footsteps in the atrium outside. Moments later, Aurelius appeared in the doorway.

  ‘You have another visitor, Domine.’

  Fronto frowned. His guards never used such a noble term, mostly calling him by name. As Aurelius backed aside, bowing, three more figures appeared in the doorway. He didn’t recognise the men to either side, though they were clearly tribunes. But the man in the middle…

  ‘Brutus!’

  A genuine smile spread across his face as he hurried across the room to the tired-looking officer in the doorway. He caught sight of his major domo standing respectfully some distance behind them, waiting for orders, while he held the three officers’ cloaks.

  ‘Amelgo? Have a meal prepared and plenty of wine. Could you have extra cushions brought in too? And a bowl of warm water for our guests to give themselves a quick clean up?’

  As the servant dashed off, Fronto grinned at the three officers. ‘You’re welcome to use my baths of course, but from the looks of you you’ve just dismounted and you’ll probably want a seat and a cup of wine first, yes?’

  Brutus gave him a tired smile. ‘A drink would be most welcome, Marcus. These two, by the way, are Pontius and Gamburio, tribunes of the Twelfth who have come with me all the way from the north.’ The two officers bowed.

  ‘Good to meet you. A fine legion, the Twelfth. I remember their formation. Come on. Sit yourselves.’

  Brutus sank to a cushioned seat with gratitude.

  ‘I presume this means that Caesar’s wagon train has arrived?’ Fronto hazarded. ‘I guessed someone important would be commanding it. Glad it’s a friend. And maybe, since you’re a friend’ you’ll be able to squeeze a little shipment of mine aboard the triremes you’re taking to Rome?’

  Brutus shook his head. ‘Sorry, Marcus. I’ve been down into town with the wagons and talked to the man in the offices. Sounds to me like we’ll fit most of the cargo on board, but there’s not even enough room for my full load. I’m going to have to do a deal with the more reputable local captains. Or send the other wagons around the coast and down through Italia, though that will mean having to temporarily reassign a cohort or two from the Twelfth. It’s all a bit of a headache, to be honest.’

  Fronto was pleased enough to see his friend that he ignored the irritation over the fact that his business would continue to stagnate for a week or more yet.

  ‘Well at least you’re here and safe,’ Fronto chuckled. ‘A target like your column must have been tempting for half the tribes of Gaul.’

  Brutus nodded, scrubbing ruffled hair. ‘We almost fell foul of one attack, from the good and loyal Helvii of all people! But fortunately we were warned in time and the enemy retreated without an arrow loosed.’

  Cavarinos stepped away from the wall now, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Did you say the Helvii?’

  ‘Yes.’ Brutus narrowed his eyes at this strange Romanised Gaul who he didn’t recognise.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Three days ago now.’

  ‘That’s where they were, then,’ Cavarinos nodded to himself. ‘I wondered why Alba was almost empty. The Sons of Taranis must have been right behind them. Hopefully they got bogged down behind your column and delayed.’

  Brutus frowned in confusion. ‘The who?’

  ‘A cult of killers. There are twelve of them, led by a disfigured man.’

  Brutus’ brow furrowed further, and he turned and muttered something to the tribunes, who nodded their agreement.

  ‘A dozen, you say? This disfigured man… would he be wearing a mask?’

  Cavarinos, coming vividly alert, stepped forward so forcefully that one of the tribunes dropped his hand to his sword hilt, but the Arvernian drew himself up in front of Brutus.

  ‘A cult mask? Gleaming glaze with a straight mouth and small horns?’

  Brutus nodded. ‘He was a servant, they said, who’d been disfigured by the pox.’

  ‘He was disfigured by a cavalry sword at Alesia,’ Cavarinos said quietly, and turn
ed to Fronto. ‘They’re here. They’re in Massilia now, and they had no trouble getting here. They had a Roman escort.’

  Brutus looked across at Fronto.

  ‘Who are these people, then? These Sons of Taranis?’

  ‘Rebels, killers and lunatics,’ Fronto replied. Damn good job for you that you had the Twelfth around you, then. From what Cavarinos tells me, you’d probably be decorating a tree now if they’d found you on your own.’

  Brutus’ frown deepened yet again as he turned to the Gaul.

  ‘Cavarinos? Of the Arverni?’

  Cavarinos nodded.

  ‘I saw you at the surrender of Alesia. Fronto, you are keeping very odd company.’

  ‘Odd, but good. Brutus, do you know where those twelve will be now?’

  The senior officer shook his head. ‘We parted ways at the city gate. They could be anywhere by now. Damn it. Something felt off about them all that way, but I just put it down to jumpiness, given what I was transporting. What are they doing here?’

  Fronto opened his mouth to speak, but Cavarinos was there first. ‘Primarily trying to take ship, but while they’re in town I would be astonished if they don’t try and send Fronto here to meet his gods in person. And if you are, as you appear to be, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, Caesar’s cousin, then I would make very sure to keep a large guard of legionaries around you at all times. You will be every bit as tempting a target as Fronto.’

  Brutus nodded. ‘The legion will be moving off towards Narbo when the ships depart, but after that we’ll have the marines to look after us. I think I’ll be safe. It’ll take a week to load the ships and prepare to sail, I reckon.’

  ‘I doubt the Sons of Taranis will stay in port that long,’ Cavarinos noted. ‘They will delay departure long enough to try and kill such valuable Roman officers, but their objective requires that they leave as early as possible, and they’ll want to get to Rome ahead of the convoy, as that will block up your port and draw a lot of gazes to incoming ships.’

  Fronto crossed to stand in front of Brutus.

  ‘Alright, Decimus. You can’t take my cargo, but I tell you one thing. Once these bastards have run from Massilia, they’re heading for Rome, and I will follow them and put them down. So you’ll make space for me and mine on the ships or I will personally cripple enough of your men to make room.’

  Brutus chortled. ‘Subtle as ever, Fronto. Alright. We’ll make sure to keep room for a few passengers. Just make sure you stay alive until we sail.’

  Fronto smiled. ‘You stay safe with the Twelfth until we’re ready to leave, Decimus.’ He glanced across at Masgava. ‘In the meantime we need to secure the villa completely. No little shopping trips to the agora. No theatre visits or strolls along the coast path. Everyone stays in the villa under guard and everyone is armed. Even Catháin and the workmen. If a mouse farts in this place I want a man with a sword looking up its arse. Understood?’

  As Masgava nodded his total agreement, Fronto turned to Cavarinos.

  ‘Meantime, you and I are going to spend a little time in the town and turn over a few rocks, see what crawls out.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE Cadurci oppidum of Uxellodunon rose from the mist like some behemoth of ancient legend, its ‘upturned boat’ shape inky black against the dusk sky. The fog was chilly, though the evening was far from cold, with spring enfolding the land in its warm blanket. The evenings were warm and the gentle broiling of the land resulted in the huge carpet of mist that rose from the rivers and streams and irrigation channels that surrounded the oppidum.

  The bulk of the Romans would be safely tucked away inside their tents, expecting no trouble, but Lucterius knew from long experience that despite such things the Roman sentries and pickets would be far from complacent. And the officer who had chased them to this site seemed to be shrewd enough. He had concentrated his forces in three locations where they could react to any move in force and could concentrate their supplies and organisation, each camp with a solid cavalry element to speedily deal with anything for which the infantry would be too slow. But they had also created a cordon around the place, with men on watch so close that they could speak to one another. A message from the Roman commander could circuit the oppidum in perhaps a quarter of an hour. Worse still, the man had had a wicker fence thrown up around the entire circumference, excepting where features of nature prevented it.

  Then they had settled in to lay siege.

  There had been arguments in Uxellodunon.

  Drapes – damn the man for the only chief who was senior enough to vie for control – had blamed Lucterius for being too slow and getting them trapped here. It mattered not how many times Lucterius explained that he had intended to tarry here anyway, with or without the Romans. Drapes had urged for a breakout in force and to continue their journey south.

  But it was too early. Molacos had been insistent that he would retrieve the great king and return him at the appointed place on the Roman border on the first day of the month of Qutios. Lucterius was no fool, though, and he knew to add a month to that, for Molacos was being proud and boastful as was right in such a great warrior. Lucterius had agreed to meet Molacos and the king with his new army on the eve of the festival of Lugnasa, which marked the start of the harvest season. Thus he had intended to come here, to his hometown, to train this new army and rest and prepare. Then, at the end of Qutios, they would begin to move south. They would meet Molacos and the great king at the edge of Roman lands and would then sweep down and destroy Narbo. He felt sure that the tribes in Narbonensis would rally to the cause of freedom if the local authorities and garrison were destroyed. And when those tribes – the Volcae, the Ruteni, the Tectosages and various others – joined the cause, it would almost certainly bring the taciturn and reluctant Aquitani tribes of the mountain country down to join in.

  The northern and the eastern tribes had been smashed – there was no hope of a new rebellion being born there – but the south and east remained strong. They only had to be shown the way, shown that Rome could be beaten and driven out, and then they would rise. The burning of Narbo and the triumph of the once-defeated Arverni king would do that.

  Of course, the presence of these two legions under the man Caninius had thrown a stick in the wheel spokes of the plan. But sticks could be removed. And Lucterius still had over a month until he had originally intended to move south anyway. Drapes had worried that the Romans would send for reinforcements, but Lucterius had prepared everything. The north was still rising with every man they could muster. They were little more than a gad fly biting the hide of Rome, but they were keeping Caesar and his other generals busy. It was simply bad luck that this Caninius had run to help the Lemovices while Drapes had been there. Otherwise the plan would be moving forward without Roman interference.

  Still, he was confident that they would win. He had as many men as the Romans and as long as he could meet them on favourable terms, he would win the day. There could be no pitched battle in open land, for that was where Rome became ascendant. And attacking the Roman defences was foolish – they had learned that at Alesia.

  So there was one way. An army was only as good as its supplies.

  Uxellodunon had good stores of grain and a source of water. Half the plateau was given to the cultivation of vegetables and fruit and the husbandry of animals. Uxellodunon could hold out for as long as they wanted it to. And the men would never go hungry during all that time. They would eat well. But the Romans had chased them here without the usual wagon train, and that meant that they were reliant upon forage. They must be running very short now of the meagre supplies they had brought with them, and would be hunting animals and sending forage parties out to locate farms.

  They would be unlucky. The war had taken its toll on the tribes and few farms had yielded a healthy harvest for two years now. Unless they found the supply dump at Serpent Ford, six or seven miles southwest of the oppidum, that was. It had originally been stored there with the intention of being br
ought inside the ramparts when the army arrived, but the Romans had been too close and so the supplies remained where they had been left.

  If the Romans found it they would be well fed for long enough to ruin the plan. But two more weeks without adequate supplies and the Romans would be forced to quit the siege and move back north to where their own supplies were. Then the Cadurci would move on. Or, if he was one of the more belligerent of the Roman commanders, this Caninius would judge his position untenable and decide to launch a desperate attack. And if he did that, Lucterius would win easily and destroy two legions into the bargain.

  It was all dependent upon his men remaining strong and well fed while the Romans starved and weakened.

  When he had told Drapes about the cache of food, the man had strained at his leash, wanting to rush the enemy lines and either retrieve or burn the supplies to make sure the Romans did not get them. Lucterius had been calm and organised and had explained that he had a plan.

  He would take five hundred men and retrieve the supplies. There could be no more than five hundred, lest the Romans notice them sneaking past and bring them to battle. Then he would lose. But five hundred men he could get through the Roman lines. Then they would bring the supplies back to the oppidum, not only weakening the chances of the enemy but strengthening their own.

  Drapes had lost his temper and roared his distrust into Lucterius’ face. Not only had Lucterius led them into a siege and got them trapped by two legions all because of some faint timeline to which he was working, but now he proposed to sneak out of the oppidum and run, leaving Drapes to his fate.

  Lucterius had put on his most patient voice and explained once more that he was simply going to fetch the supplies, but Drapes had the bit between his teeth and accused him repeatedly of trying to flee now that things had gone wrong. And the more Drapes spat and raged, the more the lesser chiefs had nodded and begun to look at Lucterius with distrust.

  It was madness. Was he not the architect of this whole plan? Was he not behind the renewed dream of freeing the tribes from the Roman yoke? But in the face of bile and invective, all the idiots could see was that Lucterius planned to leave the oppidum. In the end, he had been forced to acquiesce and agree to Drapes joining him on the mission. They would take the five hundred men – two hundred of his loyal Cadurci and two hundred of Drapes’ Senones. And several of the more nervous, distrustful lesser chiefs would come with a dozen or so men each. It was utterly ridiculous. The bulk of the new rebel army remained well fed and rested, training in the oppidum under the command of one of the smallest and least important chiefs in this army. Meanwhile anyone with any influence was busy sneaking out of the place to retrieve stored grain.