S. Turney: The Great Revolt

Priscus gave Fronto a questioning look and the legate shrugged. ‘Half a dozen knob-heads from the local government Lucilia wants me to brown-nose. I’ve half a mind to take you in to meet them like this. Would do them all good to see what a proper soldier looks like.’ He sighed. ‘But Lucilia would tear me a second arsehole for that. Anyway, before you bathe and meet politicians, back to the problem at hand.’

‘It may be a problem,’ threw in Fabius as he reached for the water and topped up his mug before draining it in one long gulp, ‘but we still have an advantage.’

‘Oh? How so?’

‘On our journey we confirmed that the supply lines have been severed. No word has reached the south of anything strange, despite at least one major Roman depot burning. None of the merchants have returned from the north, either, and the traders in Narbonensis are already whispering of trouble and pulling out any interests they have upriver. Given that, it’s reasonable to assume that the rebels are sitting happy, believing that the legions and the general are both living in ignorant bliss of any trouble. But we do know. And soon, so will Caesar. Perhaps we can turn that unpreparedness into an advantage?’

‘But the general will still be mired down with Rome, surely? What with Pompey and Clodius and so on.’ Priscus frowned, and Fronto gave him a strange smile.

‘Of course, you won’t have heard! Clodius was killed in a scuffle on the Appian Way a month or so ago, and Pompey is winding his neck in a bit now, for fear of any flying blame sticking to him, since it appears Milo was involved. If ever Caesar had a lull to deal with Gaul, this is it. The timing is propitious and owes much to Fortuna.’ He took a gulp of wine and nodded. ‘I like your thinking, Fabius. Knowing more than the enemy believe you do is always an advantage.’

As the four men swigged their drinks, a slave appeared, bowing. ‘The bath house is ready, Dominus.’

Fronto nodded and gestured to the others. ‘Go and get yourselves cleaned up, then you can keep me sane while we entertain a few local donkeys, then when we’re done with that farce, we’ll sit down over a few cups and hammer out the details of this message to Caesar. The couriers can have the despatch with him in about four days, and I would lay bets that in the same amount of time again, the general will be at my door on his way north.”

As the other three wandered off, following the slave to the baths, Fronto glanced back towards the door through which Lucilia had retreated.

And that would give him little more than a week with her and the boys before the never-ending wars in Gaul drew him northwards once more.

* * * * *

The oppidum of Gergovia in Arverni lands .

Cavarinos rubbed his chin reflexively. He’d had a thick beard tugged downward by a copper ring ever since he had grown to manhood, and it was taking some getting used to the absence of the same, his bushy, bristling moustache doing little to make up for its loss. He stole a sharp glance at his brother, Critognatos, who stood waiting, looking a little bored and fidgety, stroking his luxurious facial mop, and Cavarinos grunted irritably. He should never have shaved the damn thing off, but it had been the last straw when someone had mistaken him for his brother so thoroughly that he had been unable to convince them of their mistake. No, the beard had had to go for that reason alone. It was little consolation that he now looked more like most of the Arverni warriors, including their glorious leader. He’d liked his beard.

Ripping his hand tetchily from his chin, Cavarinos settled his helmet on his head, considered tying the strap that joined the cheek-pieces, but realised how that would feel on his bristly chin and gave up, drumming his fingers on the pommel of the heavy sword at his side.

‘Can you hear Lucterius and his Cadurci warriors on the move already, while we sit here and wait?’ Critognatos snapped angrily as he stomped over to the window and peered through the gap at the scene outside. Cavarinos could hear the assembled warriors waiting expectantly, horses snorting and stomping, mail shushing and metalwork clunking. It was irritating him too, but he was determined to draw as definite a line as possible between his brother and himself. Patience .

‘There’s no rush, brother. The Bituriges aren’t going anywhere.’

Critognatos snorted, his face contorting into a boar-like snout of spite. That was better — now they did not resemble one another at all — and turned from the window.

‘We should not be fighting other tribes. We should be fighting Romans. The Gods have brought us to this place and time because they despise the Romans and their childish idols.’ He snorted again. ‘You’ve seen the statues in their temples… great God-fathers who look more like women-folk. Wearing togas ’ — he spat the word with venom — ‘and carrying mere sticks. No wonder great Taranis waits to ride his chariot over the beaten body of their womanly Jupiler !’

‘Jupiter.’

‘What?’

‘Their Gods-father is called Jupiter. Or Jove, I believe. Not Jupiler.’

Critognatos narrowed his eyes as he stormed across the room, waving an angry finger. ‘Who gives a shit what his name is? The important thing is for the great lord of Thunder to nail the bastard to a tree and tear out his innards.’

‘You do talk absolute bollocks, brother.’ Cavarinos curled his lip, calm in the face of the wagging finger. ‘The Gods have not brought us to this place and time for hatred of their Roman counterparts. The Gods have not brought us to this place and time at all ! Vercingetorix’s leadership and charisma have brought us here, along with a healthy dose of desperation and anger among the other tribes and the underhanded dealings of those forest-shepherds the druids.’

Critognatos made several warding signs against the displeasure of the Gods, glaring at his brother. ‘Without the Gods…’

‘Without the Gods ,’ Cavarinos interjected with a roll of his eyes, ‘we would have been out from under the shadows of the shepherds centuries ago and building a world on the rule of ordinary men that would rival Rome. Romans revere their Gods, but I do not think that they truly believe in them. That is why they are practical and their empire is strong. And do not mistake superstition for faith, brother. Faith is what I have in our people and in Vercingetorix. Superstition is what you have for the Gods.’

Again, Critognatos warded himself, so vehemently that he stumbled against one of the pillars that circled the central fire pit. He righted himself and Cavarinos braced at the look of zealous indignation in his brother’s eyes. Here came the tirade…

‘I trust you two are behaving?’

The voice cut across the room and immediately severed the invisible cords of tension. The brothers turned to see Vergasillaunus striding in through the rear door, his bronze armour gleaming, a blue cloak swirling from his shoulders in a strangely Roman style. The brothers fell silent. In the hierarchy of both the Arverni tribe and the Gallic host entire, Vergasillaunus was second only in authority to Vercingetorix, his uncle’s son. Despite the fact that Cavarinos and his brother were high nobles and leaders of men in their own right from the nearby oppidum of Nemossos, they both knew where the true power in this place lay, and much of that flowed around the shining figure who had just joined them.

Vergasillaunus gave an easy smile. ‘Relax, you two. As soon as Lucterius and his army are down the hill and clear of the oppidum we will be marshalling and ready to move. We and our allies are about to show the world that the Arverni serpent has two fanged heads.’