S. Turney: The Great Revolt

From the first days when the Arverni had watched Caesar’s legions march into the lands just north of them, following the Helvetii, Cavarinos had been champing at the bit to bring war against the legions, and it had taken five long years for anything to happen, to bring the possibility of opposition. Over that time the Roman presence here had grown each year, with ever more legionaries stationed among the tribes, bringing death and fire. And Cavarinos had left the oppidum of Nemossos with his brother and joined Vercingetorix and Vergasillaunus at Gergovia and begun the great task of uniting the tribes.

But now he was beginning to feel shaky on the whole subject, though he would never have admitted as such to any of his companions. Since that meeting in Bibracte with the Roman officer, he had time and again questioned in his own head the need for a grand rising and battle, when weighed against the possibility of peaceful terms. The very idea that there could be concord without such bloodshed was tempting fruit. But the shepherds of the people were rabid these days. They would not stop now until they had opened the gut of every last Roman on their flat stones. And Vercingetorix? What of him? Cavarinos had long suspected that what had driven the great chief had not been so much the need to drive out Rome, but rather the desire to unite the tribes of what Romans called ‘Gaul’ under his own royal thumb.

He shook his head.

It was just a dream of peace… an ephemeral mirage that shifted under scrutiny and showed itself to be in fact a scene of bare-faced war. Whether negotiation had ever been a possibility, things had now gone too far. And even if he had still clutched to the idea that terms might be agreed, now Lucterius marched south with two thousand bloodthirsty warriors, gathering other tribes as he passed with the Roman city of Narbo in his sights. It would take weeks for the warband to reach Narbonensis gathering men as it went, but the moment that warband crossed the invisible but all-so-important line into Roman lands, any hope of a peaceful solution was gone forever. Cavarinos might not know Caesar and his like well, but he was clear on that nonetheless.

Lucterius would destroy the meagre garrison of Narbonensis easily and with that one strike he would begin the war. Caesar would rush to wrap things up and return to his legions, but by the time he moved to the north and reached them, the army of Vercingetorix would be a rival for his legions; the largest force the tribes had ever assembled.

The last battle was coming, and before winter either Caesar or Vercingetorix would find themselves in total control of the land. And how could Caesar possibly learn of all this, mobilise and reach his army in the north before it was all too late?

With a sigh, Cavarinos shook all this foolishness from his head, walked to the door and stepped outside, just in time to see Vercingetorix arriving to greet his army.

* * * * *

Aquileia, seat of the Governor of Cisalpine Gaul

Aulus Ingenuus, prefect in command of Caesar’s praetorian cavalry guard, fiddled with the buckle on his baldric, the missing fingers on his right hand making the task difficult. Over the past six years since he had lost those fingers in battle and found favour with the general he had managed to train himself to write with his left hand. He was now a reasonably effective swordsman with the left, and could manage almost any task assigned to him, but a fibula — a decorative buckle — was still troublesome.

‘Damn the thing!’ he snapped angrily, almost dropping his sword on the floor, but his slave was there instantly, grasping the scabbard and lifting it as he fastened the buckle for his master. Recovering his mood, Ingenuus nodded the little Syrian his thanks and adjusted the blade so that it hung just right before stringing his belt around his middle and waiting patiently while the slave fastened that too.

He really should just let the slave do it all, but it was a constant niggle to the young commander that such a simple, mundane task was still beyond him, and he would never stop trying.

Brushing back his hair, which would need cutting soon, he looked himself up and down in the bronze mirror. A mature soldier with slightly haunted eyes, well-muscled arms and legs, no few scars visible as narrow white lines, and a strong jaw looked back at him.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered, in his head still the young cavalry decurion who had distinguished himself those six years ago.

‘Your pardon, Dominus?’ queried the slave.

‘Nothing, Elyas. Make my bed and go into the town. See if you can procure me some fruit that’s not an apple for a change.’

Ignoring the bow and retreat of the slave, Ingenuus gave himself one last critical look in the mirror and then nodded his approval before opening the door, strolling out of the room and into the corridor beyond.

The palace was quiet, unusually quiet for this time of the morning, and Ingenuus’ superstitious mind told him that was a sign of bad times to come. Most of the staff were not officially supposed to start this early, of course, but the Proconsul slept little and light and was rarely still abed when Aurora wafted her rosy fingers across the horizon. And with Caesar being active early, it was a courageous underling who slept later and took advantage of the letter of the law.

Squaring his shoulders, he set off on his usual morning rounds. Through a series of corridors lined with marble busts, painted in lifelike colours and recently touched-up at the general’s request he strode until he reached the front entrance to the palace and the steps down to the main street of Aquileia. The two men on guard there were perfectly turned-out and standing to attention just as he’d expected. His cavalry were all good men. Over the years he had weeded out the few who were not up to scratch and replaced them with chosen men from other mounted units, drawn by the prestige and the pay in equal amounts.

With a nod to the two men, he turned back inside and marched on through the corridors to the office of his clerk, who was busy scribbling tiny scratched marks on a wax tablet behind a desk overburdened with documentation. The clerk only looked up as the door opened, but he was on his feet before Ingenuus came to a stop, the stylus forgotten and lying on the desk.

‘Good morning, prefect.’

‘Morning, Strabo. What’s the news today?’

Without having to look down at his records, the clerk cleared his throat. ‘Largus and Satrius still in the hospital, sir. Largus does not seem to be throwing off the illness, but there is no blood in his sputum, so the medicus tells me it is only a matter of time and recuperation. Satrius is now hobbling, sir, but will be out of action for at least a week still, and will only be fit for light duties for a further two. You have two pending requests for leave before the campaigning season begins.’

‘And your opinion on those, Strabo?’

‘Frankly, sir, I would turn down Allidius, as his home is south of Rome and the journey time would make any leave finish perilously close to when he might be needed. Rectus is only from Cremona though, sir. He could be there and back in short order.’

Ingenuus shook his head. ‘Cannot penalise a man on account of geography. If Allidius cannot go because we are too close to marching season, then neither can Rectus. Tell them that once the season is over I will sanction an extended leave for them both.’

‘Very good sir.’

‘Anything else?’

‘All fine otherwise, sir. The new bridles should arrive later today, barring unforeseen mercantile delays, and the three spare mounts were delivered yesterday by Olichus the horse trader and are now in the training school.’

‘Excellent.’ Ingenuus straightened. ‘Be about your business then, Strabo, and I shall see you later.’